Cops and Robbers
by InkySpectacles
Summary: "Let me get this straight." Lestrade groaned as he surveyed the damage. "You took out half the cameras in London, 'borrowed' three cars, and knocked out half my team just because you were playing some convoluted cops and robbers game with Mycroft?"
1. The Game Begins

**Cops and Robbers **

John was awoken at some ungodly hour in the morning (_don't look at the clock or you'll have to explain why you killed your flatmate) _to the sound of something that wasn't a bullet hitting the wall with considerable force. He stumbled downstairs to find Sherlock throwing various scorched books, pens, and what appeared to be the leg of his chair at the wall, while a pan on the stove smoked ominously.

"Sherlock, what the _bloody hell_-"

"They're all bugged."

Bugger.

"Mycroft bugged them all while we were away on our last case, and I haven't even searched the bedrooms yet. That-" (what followed was a creative combination of curses not usually heard unless one is outside a Glaswegian pub at 11pm on a Saturday night, and only if the booze is extremely cheap and two people who have an unhealthy level of hatred for one another happen to try to flirt with the same girl.)

John was impressed by Sherlock's grasp of modern language in all its filthy splendor, but moved to draw the detective back to the matter at hand when it looked like he may be running out of air. "_Why_ would he bug the flat?"

"-weasel-shagging idiot with the metal capacity of a leaking garbage disposal and all the charm of a rusty spoon. Probably because he wants to keep an eye on me for anything he could use to blackmail me into doing a case for him, I don't know. Could you take that pot off the stove, please? The microphones should have dissolved by now."

Sure enough, when John picks up the saucepan, it contains the remains of what might have been several very expensive microphones. He doesn't want to know what they're soaking in and just hopes that it doesn't eat through the pot too quickly.

…

Mycroft turns up half an hour later after Sherlock sends him some very rude texts, with not-Anthea in tow. Surveying the damage, he quietly remarks "The last time you caused this much destruction of household items was that time you were conducting your experiments with electricity and its relation to acid strength."

John suddenly worries for the light bulbs. "When was this, exactly?"

"He was six at the time, I believe."

Sherlock swirls around to shout at his brother, seeming only to reconsider it at the last minute. "These bugs really don't do any good, Mycroft. I'm only letting you keep tabs on me because I know you'll start kidnapping people if you can't."

Mycroft raises a single, expressive eyebrow. "You're _letting_ me, Sherlock?"

"Yes." The answer is unwavering. "I could disappear this very moment if I wanted to."

John almost groans. He has a feeling where this is going…

"Well then, dear brother, how about we test that theory?"

It just went there.

"Let's see if you can remain out of my hands for twenty-four hours. You'll have a fifteen-minute head start."

Sherlock's eyes light up, even though he is desperately trying to maintain his calm position. "And if I do?"

Mycroft smiles in the indulgent-older-brother way that gives John an overwhelming urge to punch him. "I'll scale down the in-flat surveillance that I have on you two." He pauses. "And I'll completely remove all of the bugs for one week."

Sherlock looks at him. "That's too good to be true… if you should win, what's my penalty?"

Mycroft smiles. "I wouldn't penalize _you_, dear brother. However…"

_Here it comes, _John thinks.

"I _would _be extremely appreciative if you could be of assistance in the next few matters I bring to your attention."

Mycroft turns to leave. "The rules are simple. You have to remain out of my custody for twenty-four hours. I'll be generous and give you a half-hour start-you'll need it. I'll ignore anything that isn't _too_ illegal, but in return, I won't be pulling any punches."

He checks his watch as he strides out the door. "Let the record show it is now 4:18 am. See you soon, dear brother."

Sherlock grins. "Not as soon as you think."

**Love it, hate it, have a prompt for it, leave your opinion in a review. There will most likey be 24 chapters, and I'm going to try and write a variety of genres: drama, action, maybe even some fluff if I can work up the courage. **

**Let the chase begin! **


	2. The First Hour

**The First Hour**

Sherlock is shrugging on his coat moments after Mycroft has left. John follows his example, remembering his gun and some cash, as well as a couple of extremely authentic-looking IDs from an old case. They're clattering down the steps and out the door moments after a black car pulls away from the curb, and then they're off and running.

Three blocks away, they duck into an alley so that Sherlock can pull out his phone and get to work. His fingers are tapping on the screen as John does a sweep of the area, staying out of the camera's way. When he returns, Sherlock is listening to police chatter as numerous officers discuss the sudden surveillance blackout that is covering a three-kilometer range. But something isn't right…

Then it hits him. "Montague Street? That's _miles_ away from where we are now. And what the _hell_ happened to a head start?"

Sherlock gives him a look that suggests that he is acting sillier than usual, and replies, "Mycroft giving us a half-hour head start means that he won't grab us the instant we walk out of the flat. He will, however, monitor our position and send in a team to get us when it's up. As for the cameras, it should take him at least forty-five minutes to realize that we're going the other way."

He grins, and John feels the excitement swelling in his chest.

"How far do you think we can get by then?"

…

_I really shouldn't think that I'm the only one with a devious streak_, Sherlock muses as John attacks the Jaguar's starting mechanism with renewed vigor. The engine purrs into life, and John slides into the front seat, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

The garage didn't have very good security anyway, Sherlock muses. Governments should really keep better track of their toys.

A crackle of electricity and the GPS tracker is off, and another disables the camera and microphones. John switches gears and tears out of the lot before Sherlock has a chance to buckle up, and he has to wonder where John learned to drive, because he's going at twice the legal speed and still maintaining perfect control of the vehicle.

His chain of though is rudely interrupted when a police officer objects to their activities and attempts to give chase, prompting John to execute a rapid three-point turn that leaves his head spinning and the copper "eating their dust".

Even listening to the APB put out for their car brings a smile to his lips as he wonders how long it will be before Lestrade gets involved. He turns to his grinning partner and remarks, "We've got about forty-five minutes before we have to ditch this. Any ideas for our next stop?"

John's expression is dry. "We've just committed grand theft auto, Sherlock. I am simply going to suggest we change out mode of transportation."

Sherlock doesn't get nervous. However, his flatmate's expression is making him the teensiest bit apprehensive. "Oh?"

"Ever ridden a motorbike?"

* * *

><p><strong>I recently read a fanfic called "Never Again or Why Sherlock Always Drives", which gave me some of the inspiration for their...<em>escapades. <em>If I weren't so amused by this, I might pity the Yard. Hope you enjoyed this, and I welcome any and all reviews/prompts/constructive critisism that you feel like offering. **

**See ya! **

**-InkySpectacles**


	3. The Second Hour

**The Second Hour**

**TWO Chapters today- Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em>These were probably stolen anyway<em>, John rationalizes as Sherlock works on the padlock keeping the garage door shut. Not thirty seconds later, they are pulling on helmets and screaming out of the alley, and they're on the A202 here inside fifteen minutes. Traffic is still light as the sun peers over the horizon, and John's beginning to enjoy himself.

That is, until they hit Picadilly, where an accident has ground traffic to a halt. Sherlock pulls up beside him and flips up his visor, the name slipping out like an expletive.

"_Mycroft_."

Any normal person would be a flabbergasted at this statement. John, however, ceased being normal the minute they took off after the cabbie. He's still a bit surprised, though. "Mycroft would cause a traffic accident?"

"Mycroft would _stage_ a traffic accident," Sherlock corrects. "I don't doubt that those pretending to be involved have our pictures with a 'Security Risk' caption on them."

"Some people _would_ classify us as a security risk-"

"Some people are idiots." Sherlock is scanning the scene, looking for an escape route. Nothing, nothing, nothing…

There.

There's a narrow section of sidewalk that isn't cordoned off by police tape, giving them a path around. He points it out to John, who revs his bike in response. Visors down.

They kick their bikes into gear and weave in and out of the cars like suicidal bumblebees, drivers responding with blasts of horns and multilingual oaths uttered through open windows.

John grins. _God, I love London_.

Squeaking around the accident moment s before the involved parties have a chance to register their movements, Sherlock turns around and flips up his visor, clearly mocking their inability to catch him. John can't help but grin- he's never seen his flatmate acting this childish.

Several exits and back streets later, they pull up beside a dodgy breakfast place that Sherlock swears serves the most potent coffee in London. It turns out that they also serve excellent bacon sandwiches, and John inhales several (forcing Sherlock to eat one) as they both force down some foul coffee that, admittedly, does wake them up.

John scans an early paper as Sherlock scans news headlines and maps on his phone, trying to discern what Mycroft might be planning next. The early-morning stillness, however, shatters when John begins to notice numerous patrons that appear…_too_ typical. He points out the matter to Sherlock, who gulps the rest of his coffee and rises to his feet.

Thirty quid and the proprietor is more than happy to allow them to use the back exit, wishing them a pleasant day as he puts another pan of eggs on the stove. They've lost the bikes, but that makes little difference as they melt into the back streets that only Sherlock knows properly.

Sherlock turns another corner, excited (though he will never admit it) about this new game, this new challenge. _Let's see Mycroft find us here. _


	4. The Third Hour

**The Third Hour**

**More of a "meanwhile" really, but a great chance to introduce some old friends!**

**I own nothing, never have, never will (though I should have said this at the start).**

**Except Perkins, who you're going to meet soon. And he ran away.**

* * *

><p>Lestrade regarded his visitor with a wary eye. Mycroft Holmes sipped his tea (fetched by a trembling rookie) and returned the DI's stare.<p>

"Have you considered my offer?"

In reply, Lestrade glanced at the text that Sherlock had sent him at some ungodly hour of the morning.

**Dealing with Mycroft. He will ask you for help. Say no and I'll take care of a filling cabinet's worth of cold cases for you. Say yes and I won't help with any cases for a month.**

** -SH**

The offer was simply too good to refuse. No amount of government perks were worth the amount of headaches that the consulting detective's assistance would alleviate. (Or the amount that his refusal to cooperate would cause.)

Putting on his most diplomatic smile, Lestrade faced the elder Holmes. "Though I do appreciate the opportunity, I must decline the offer." Another smile, one that a bystander might mistake for friendliness. "You see, I've got ever so much paperwork to do. Perkins-" He gestured to the coffee-bearing recruit- "Perkins, please show our _guest_ the door."

Perkins is halfway down the corridor before Mycroft turns half the weight of his gaze upon the poor boy- probably not two weeks out of training- and that's enough to send him scurrying down the hall with a hasty "I' haveaniceday." He promptly vanishes into a nearby office, no doubt to regale them with stories of the Really Frightening Minor Government Official Who Probably Isn't All That Minor And May Have Something To Do With Sherlock.

Prefect.

Lestrade's loyalty is admirable, though it does make his job a little more difficult. Only a little, though.

Anderson and Donovan are easy to locate and easier to convince, and have assembled a team of their own within a half-hour.

Lestrade hears them murmuring in the hallway, and sends a warning text to Sherlock.

For a price, of course.

**Mycroft is sending Anderson, Donavon, and co. to hunt you down. Probably no big deal, but thought you might want to know. **

**1 ½ filing cabinets for that, but I'll make sure that they're all nice grisly murders because I'M NICE. Would have said no anyway- Mycroft annoys me. **

** GL**

He doesn't want to know what's going on, though it's probably going to create a bit of work for him. Better get as much as possible done now, before the _real_ craziness starts.

* * *

><p>Elsewhere in the city, Sherlock grimaces at the message before he shows it to John. "Mycroft's cheating."<p>

"Technically, he isn't." The sight of Sherlock's scowl (which is almost endearing, though he'd never say that out loud) prompts the next sentence.

"So how about we do some 'technically not cheating' of our own?"

* * *

><p><strong>Reviewsprompts/PMs telling me to gat my act together push me to update faster. So get typing!**

**Please?**


	5. The Fourth Hour

**The Fourth Hour**

* * *

><p>Sherlock snorts quietly as he gazes at the computer screen, his contact's reply still glowing faintly on the otherwise-black display. Gallifreyan_Exile_87 <em>does<em> have a flair for the dramatic.

**Sounds like fun. Any specifics? **

Sherlock grins.

**Whatever you feel is appropriate. **

Gallifreyan_Exile_87 disconnects from the chatroom in a flash, most likely already at work. And Sherlock can't contain the low chuckle that escapes his throat.

Mycroft isn't going to know what hit him.

John had taken one look at what Sherlock was doing and gone to go and secure their next mode of transport. Sherlock has to raise an eye at this one, as it appears that no one else will.

Dear god. _He's_ acting as the voice of reason now?

London is doomed.

"John… is that a boat?"

…

Turn out that a boat really is a good way to get from one location to another if they're both on the Thames. There's much less traffic.

Though Sherlock's pretty sure that John has done…_something_ to the engine. After all, boats aren't really supposed to go this fast, are they?

But it's not like he's getting seasick or anything. Definitely not getting-

"Sherlock, are you all right? You look a bit green."

Sherlock musters up his haughtiest stare, and informs John in a tone that is definitely _not quavery at all_ that he doesn't get seasick, thank you very much, and how long until they hit land?

John doesn't bother attempting to hide his grin this time.

…

Donavon is readying her team when a techie bursts in with an urgent summons to the surveillance wing. Turning to Perkins (the poor boy looks terrified at being told the _keep everyone here_, she'll have to keep him away from Sherlock or he won't last the week), she storms off to see what on earth warrants her attention.

It is a scene of utter pandemonium.

Papers and wheeled chairs fly from wall to wall and mingle with shouts as numerous techies try to figure out what hit them. It takes only a brief observation to determine what has them all so stirred up.

A mass of screens dominates the room, showing footage from the CCTV cameras that cover London. At least, that's what they usually do.

They aren't now.

Donovan curses a certain consulting detective and his shouldn't-be-scary-but-is partner to hell and back as she surveys the damage.

All of the cameras are functioning (she hopes), but that's not what's being reflected here. The screens covering the east end of London are showing…_EastEnders_. The north end is screening all of the _Harry Potter_ movies at once, the South London cameras are playing host to the entire first season of _Being Human_.

The West End is showing…actually, she isn't really sure what it's showing. There's too many people crowded around the screens to tell.

But judging by the soundtrack and laser noises…Oh, hell.

It's _Doctor Who_.

And the season finale, by the abundance of Romans and the fez.

(Sally Donavon is most definitely _not_ a closet whovian. She doesn't know the soundtrack by heart, and she is most certainly not mouthing along to the Doctor's not-thrilling speech to the Stonehenge assembly. And she absolutely doesn't want to plunk herself down on a chair and join the throng in cheering for River Song's ability to make a Dalek beg for mercy _twice_. Of course not.)

So she gathers he willpower and shouts..._something_ at the wavering techie about this being his department and how it's their job to fix it, not hers, and storms out.

Had she turned back, Sally would have seen him jostle for a space alongside his comrade to watch the silence fall.

The cameras are probably going to be out of commission until after the battle at Demon's Run.

**Can you tell I'm a bit of a _Doctor Who_ fan?**

I've actually written the next chapter, but I need to type it out- It'll probably be up soon.


	6. The Fifth Hour

The Fifth Hour

**A/N: More for my benefit than yours, but it's around nine-thirty now. And I'm desperately trying to keep the times straight in my head. **

John ducks into a nearby Tesco as Sherlock surreptitiously hacks into the NSY mainframe to see what sort of mayhem Gallifreyan_Exile_87 was able to cause on such short notice.

He's sending a congratulatory message to the hacker when John re-emerges, tucking his shopping into the leather satchel Harry had sent him a few months earlier.

(Looks aside, it was dead useful for carrying medical supplies/notes/whatever the hell Sherlock needed him to bring on the weirder cases. And _of course_ there wasn't a secret compartment at the bottom containing a British Army Browning L9A1. Because John is a law-abiding citizen…most of the time.)

Sherlock's curiosity was instantly piqued, although he wouldn't sink so low as to ask why John felt the need to have _another_ row with the chip-and-pin machine when there were so many more interesting things to be doing.

But John will say nothing on the subject, and they simply drift towards the nearest park in search of a much-needed coffee. Ten minutes later, they're stationed on a park bench with two steaming cups of _Crammer's Roast_ (featuring twice the recommended daily intake of caffeine and on the road to being banned by the FDA, but still the best alternative to a few hours of sleep). John burns his tongue as they watch the late businesspeople dash by, screaming into their blackberries about _can we reschedule for ten o'clock _and _I swear I'll be there in five minutes_.

Neither will ever admit it, but this is the most fun they've had in weeks.

…

A flicker of movement in the corner of John's eye sets him on high alert, as he turns his head _just_ enough to see Donavon directing several officers into positions around the park's perimeter. He surreptitiously alerts Sherlock, and the two form a whispered plan.

_Go. _

Sherlock rises abruptly from the bench and heads for a nearby copse of trees, with John hot on his heels. Once they are concealed from sight, Sherlock begins a headcount while John pulls out his earlier purchases and commences mixing them. Acetone, nail polish remover, bleach…

Sherlock gives the atomizer a quizzical look as John screws on the lid and gives it a small shake- no time to distill it properly, but this will do. A small grin spreads across his face as he regards his blogger's creation. "When on earth did you learn to make _knock-out spray_?"

John's devious smile is infectious as the two grin at one another like schoolboys. "I was a delinquent student once, you know. Picked up a few things when I wasn't studying or drinking." He tucks the bottle into his pocket as the two wave their way through the trees to where Donavon and Anderson stand flanked by several officers. Donavon smirks, folding her arms over her chest. "Hello, freak. Your brother wants a word."

"And you're doing his dirty work for him. Really, that's low, even for you two." Sherlock is working to keep his tone dry as his eyes flicker over the scene, the beginning of a plan working itself out in his mind. If he can just stall them a little bit longer…

"Keep talking, Freak," Donavon growls as the officers step forward. "I'll be happy to take a statement down at the Yard."

The officers step forward to apprehend them…

And John neatly flips the first once over his shoulder as Sherlock jabs another in the solar plexus. The officers halt for a fraction of a second, watching in stunned disbelief as two of their comrades tumble to the ground.

That's all the time they need. John presses his thumb into a cluster of nerve endings, and another collapses. Two squirts from the atomizer and another's down, and the final one is tossed into a nearby tree.

Sherlock has gone for the more traditional approach, taking out one with a roundhouse kick to the legs and tossing one that comes charging at him into the more hesitant officer that was hanging back (handily pick-pocketing his pepper spray at the same time).

Eight down, two to go. Donavon looks stunned, and Anderson has gone pale. Sherlock gives him his coldest stare. "Never thought that Mycroft would be that desperate, really."

Donavon collects her thoughts enough to sneer at him. "Say what you want, but the bonus I get for slowing you down will be _very_ useful."

Now it's John's turn to speak. "Slowing us down? Not stopping us?"

Anderson viciously kicks a rock. "In the event of being unable to apprehend you, we were to try and slow you down as much as possible." He grins. "He knows _exactly_ where you are, now. How long do you think it is before he finds you?"

John mutters a few choice words and gives Anderson his most withering glare. When Sherlock looks at you like that, it's as if he knows everything about you and has decided that you're too boring to bother with. John, on the other hand, looks at you like an extremely interesting person. However, you get the feeling that at the same time he's offering you tea and a biscuit, he's figuring out the easiest way to knock you out/ quietly kill you/make sure you'll never, _ever_ be found.

It's not a look he uses very often, but when he does, you remember that he was a soldier as well as a doctor.

Anderson quails, and Sherlock sees his opportunity. John tosses him the atomizer, and he sends two squirts directly into the forensics officer's face. He's snoring before he hits the ground.

They make a…_hasty_ exit.

Sherlock doesn't even give the cameras a glimpse as they blend into the crowds at Leicester Square, so they must still be on the fritz. Two tickets later, they're boarding the tube. Sherlock commences reading the other passengers (silently, thank god) as John sinks onto a bench with a sigh. They can't stop for very long, but a few minutes won't hurt.

And for a brief while, the only sound is the ever-winding train snaking its way though the tunnels.

**See? I haven't forgotten this, though the speed at which I update my stories will be slowing down somewhat- I've gotten into the habit of writing them in notebooks during school and transcribing them onto the computer at a later date. But I will keep updating- this is far too much fun to write, so I won't abondon it. **

**As always, reviews/prompts/random comments are as welcome as the TARDIS in 221B (dear god, I'm a wholock fangirl. Don't stop me.) **


	7. The Sixth Hour

The Sixth Hour

Honestly, the idea for this chapter was created because someone suggested disguises, and I've been spending waaaay too much time looking at steampunk goggles online (there's a summary for you). This did turn out a bit longer that expected, but I was enjoying it too much to stop. Have fun!

They emerge from the tube station about forty-five minutes later, fighting the urge to blink in the stronger-than-normal sunlight. Neither is sure whether or not they've lost Mycroft or his ineffective accomplices, but there's probably enough time for another coffee. And a biscuit, according to John.

Three biscuits later (one of which goes somewhat unwillingly into Sherlock), they leave the café in a hurry when they notice a few people who seem far too normal to make any such claim.

Time to disappear again.

…

Sherlock takes the lead this time, and several back alleys later they're standing outside a rather ratty back door, the kind that suggests that the building is host to all sorts of unsavoury business.

So it's understandable that John's a bit surprised when it flies open at Sherlock's knock to reveal a rather disheveled redhead that takes one look at the two of them before grinning and inviting them in.

Her name, it turns out, is Eva, and she's the older sister to a scrawny albino teen who, it appears, has had a rather busy morning judging by the numerous computer screens surrounding him and the rather interesting video feed that he's…_borrowed_…from the NSY. John has a chuckle at Sherlock's blatant disregard for the mayhem he's caused, even though he knows that his violation of the numerous laws surrounding gun ownership and the disregard thereof have done just as much damage.

The leave the rather focused hacker at Eva's insistence, who seems to have pieced together the situation from the few comments that they've exchanged and her brother's choice for an early-morning diversion.

Now John remembers where he knows the pair from- that case from a few months back involving the BBC, the leaked pilot program, and the producer's ex-wife. Aside from the numerous attempts Eva had made to get Sherlock into a deerstalker (apparently, she's a costume designer for period shows), they had gotten along rather well- or as well as anyone can get along with Sherlock.

(And if Eva can get her hands on some of the film materials that Sherlock occasionally needs for his experiments, what of it?)

So her question about how they're going to stay out of sight when most of London (and all national, international, and most likely bloody _intergalactic _agents within a five-mile radius) knows them by name and face is not met with an insult or an overly withering glare, but with a silent pondering by both parties.

It's going to become a problem soon- the morning commuters are to hurried and caffeine-starved to pay any attention to anything other than themselves, their things, and when the tube stops next to notice their surroundings, but the coffee's probably kicked in enough to make their whole internet-phenomenon-fame thing a bit bothersome.

And then her face lights up with _unholy_ glee, and John has a very bad feeling when the next phrase she utters is "Have you considered using disguises?"

Sherlock has failed to pick up on John's apprehensiveness, and simply murmurs something about that being a possibility. He's also oblivious to the signals John is giving him indicating that _No_ it's _not _a good idea, because _people get ideas_ when it comes to clothes, and he has no desire to be walking around London dressed as a ninja. _Again_.

So he makes a halfhearted protest when Eva drags them up a flight of stairs to a well-lit studio that's a sea of cream and tan and leather, paying attention only to her warning that "There's pins everywhere, watch where you put your hands."

Then it clicks.

A brief sputter of "Whatonearthdoyou_make_?" is met with a frighteningly cheerful grin that wouldn't look out of place on a serial killer. "I'm a diehard steampunk fan," she explains as she rifles through several clothes rails, grabbing several articles of clothing as they walk along. "I make most of my friend's costumes, and there's a convention going on in the park near here today."

Sherlock looks a bit apprehensive now, as if he's realizing that John had the right idea earlier. "Won't the two of us walking around in Victorian gear draw some attention?"

Eva merrily shoves them into two adjoining fitting rooms as she considers his statement, responding with a piece of logic that even the master of deduction finds it a bit difficult to argue with.

"You've said it before- people are idiots who don't notice things. Everyone's usually quite happy tuning out anything and everything that doesn't fit with the way they want to perceive the world. If you two walked down the street dressed as you are now, people would see you faces and recognize you immediately. However, if you're running around dressed like _this_ (whereupon she tossed the clothes over the doors), people will look at the clothes, and then promptly ignore you."

Her sound argument doesn't stop John from cursing a bit as he buttons himself into a three-piece suit tan tweed suit, though his profanity steadily increases in creativity as he ties the cravat (harder to fix than the bloody bow-tie he had to wear to Harry's wedding, how is that even _possible_?) and slips the pocketwatch into his vest.

However, when he gets a looks at what she's forced Sherlock into, he has to admit that it could be worse. At least his suit has breathing room. (Though no-one should be allowed to look that good in this Victorian get-up.)

Eva looks ridiculously smug at her handiwork as she hands them hats, coats, and a cane which John almost refuses until she points out several of its rather…_interesting_ features. When he protests that he failed fencing, Sherlock points out that _he_ didn't, but would look silly carrying a walking stick.

As they head to the meeting, John takes comfort in the fact that at least their boots are comfortable. Because if they go the next hour without having to make a hasty exit from _somewhere_, he'd cheerfully eat his cravat.

Better than wearing it, at least.

However, any hopes of a bit of quiet are obliterated when, not ten minutes into a cup of tea laced with more rum than should be allowed before 5 o'clock, a piecing scream shatters the rather jovial air as a woman stumbles though a doorway.

Taking a shuddering breath, she gives the shock group a wild-eyed stare before crying "In the study! It's Heatherton! He's been-" another gasp "murdered!"

**Rather a long AN, but bear with me. How could I write a story like this completely devoid of any murders? It'd be sacrilegious! (Now I just have to _construct_ the murder, but it's happening! And don't hate me for the cliffy!)**

**I had a lot of fun writing this, and would love to give you a link to a deviantart picture of those two in their new duds, but unfortunately, I have the artistic talent of a cross-eyed capuchin monkey. Word processing is far easier, in that respect. However, if anyone out there happens to feel like making a quick sketch, I would be in your debt- _Sherlock Holmes_ WAS originally set in Victorian London, so it'd be awesome to see what those two would look like, dressing like their predecessors (with a few added gears). PM me! (Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with deerstalkers and skulls on top? Anyone? Having a minor fangirl moment here!) **

**And no, Gallifreyan_Exile_87 will never be named. Any OCs that I create will exist for only a few chapters, have little to no backstory that doesn't involve the main character, and will be promptly discarded once their plot has run out. **

**Anyway, reviews, prompts, and comments are always welcome, and keep your eyes peeled for the next chapter! **


	8. The Seventh Hour

**So sorry this took so long to update, please accept this five-and-a-bit page chapter as an apology. **

_**When We Left Off...**_

_However, any hopes of a bit of quiet are obliterated when, not ten minutes into a cup of tea laced with more rum than should be allowed before 5 o'clock, a piecing scream shatters the rather jovial air as a woman stumbles though a doorway._

_Taking a shuddering breath, she gives the shock group a wild-eyed stare before crying "In the study! It's Heatherton! He's been-" another gasp "murdered!"_

**The Seventh Hour**

John ruefully sets down his teacup and follows Sherlock, who had swept out the room the minute the far-more-interesting-topic had shown up. It's a short walk to the study, where yes, there is a body- the aforementioned unfortunate Heatherton- lying on a rather nice Persian rug, with a nasty head wound.

The woman who had led them to the study- introduced as Madison- began to babble hysterically at the sight of the corpse, seemingly unable to deal with the sight. "He said that he was going to get a set of telescopic goggles that he'd made, said they were in the study, but when I came to see if he'd found them, he was just lying there, and…" (This was when one of the other guests led her over to the couch, talking in quiet tones in an attempt to stave off her going into hysterics.)

Sherlock gave John a nod to start his examination, tossing him a pair of gloves. (The question of why he still managed to carry latex gloves on his person when he'd… _probably_ not expected a murder today remained unanswered for the time being, though John resolves to question him about whether or not they can stick their noses out of 221B without a corpse popping up.) Casting a glance over the body, he begins to mentally catalogue the obvious observations, while Sherlock studies the man's wallet and waistcoat buttons as if they could reveal the secrets of the universe.

If they could, he'd probably notice.

_Male. 25-30 years old. Black hair, grown quite long and styled, though mousy brown roots are visible. Wearing (or is it wore? Verb tenses do get muddled up when the noun is deceased) a velvet smoking-jacket, white lawn shirt with butterfly collar and neck-tie, scarlet brocade waistcoat with whitish buttons, and navy blue pants, with a top hat lying several feet away. It must have fallen off and rolled when he fell. No signs of a struggle._

_And now, ladies and gentlemen…_

"The victim is an accountant with a minor gambling addiction and is extremely vain, but has recently been short of funds, most likely from a series of losses in the horse races. He went to meet someone in Croyden about an hour before the meeting started, and said meeting didn't go well- hence his current situation. The murderer was also been familiar to the victim in some way, someone he didn't quite trust, but recognized."

Here Sherlock paused for breath. John briefly wondered about how the man had such impressive lung capacity, before his mind directed him to more pressing issues, such as the body on the rug.

And the reactions of some of the guests.

"That's impossible!"

"How the bloody hell do you know-"

"He said the gambling was under control-"

Sherlock silenced their protests with his special _you're all as stupid as Anderson_ look, and then began to explain.

"The victim's hair has been dyed with an extremely expensive brand; you can see from the subtle highlights and lowlights that it was done by a professional. Combined with the care he put into styling it and the condition of his skin and nails- they're soft and manicured- suggests that he does care quite a lot about his appearance. However, his roots have grown out and his cuticles are starting to appear raggedy- therefore, he's not had the money or the time to maintain either of them. As for the gambling, his phone (Sherlock brandished a ludicrously expensive smartphone around) has received texts every thirty minutes today starting at ten this morning- coincidentally, the same time that the rather shady McMillan racing track in Kensington opens. As the contact is listed as 'McKen', it's clear that's whom he's in contact with. So, he was wealthy enough to maintain an expensive beauty regime but has started to disregard it- therefore short of funds. Not so short that he's lost his job- his business card is for a well-known firm and is barely a week old, so he's still working- but short enough that he's had to start cutting back."

Sherlock paused to survey the dumbstruck faces around him, and then continued.

"The mud on his shoes is a type of grit most commonly found in Croyden; however, it's still a bit damp, hasn't had enough time to dry. Given the fact that the killer chose to take him out here, instead of a more private location, means that the meeting went badly and the other party was desperate for something. He (statistically, it's most likely a he,) therefore travelled here, met the victim in the study, and coshed him over the head with… something. Any luck, John?"

John looks up from his examination of the knickknacks on the fireplace mantel. "One of the candlesticks has blood on it."

"Brilliant."

Another guest, a woman in green velvet, is still somewhat confused. "But why would anyone want to kill Heatherton?"

Sherlock is actually _gleeful_, as if he'd been waiting for the chance to show off a bit more.

(John makes a mental note to knock some of the smugness out of the consulting detective at the next possible opportunity- perhaps a trip to the planetarium was in order?)

"It's his buttons, of course."

"_What?_"

Sherlock spreads the man's jacket open a bit more to show off the six engraved buttons holding the waistcoat closed. "These buttons, if you'll look closely, are almost identical to the buttons that were stolen off the coat of General Hugh-Sheffley's coat in a museum break-in six years ago. In terms of their material value, the craftsmanship is exquisite; they're made of ivory and feature delicate carvings. To a war historian, however, they're absolutely priceless, and I've no doubt that Heatherton was planning to sell them to deal with his gambling debts. I've several theories about how he would have acquired them, but we can always ask the murderer- most likely the prospective buyer."

A brief, stunned silence.

Sherlock whirls on the guests, studying each one in turn. "Have any of you called the police?"

A blond man interjects. "Yes- I called 999 about five minutes ago."

Sherlock scowls. "The correct response time for a 999 call is less than twelve minutes, so…"

John resists the urge to go and find his rum-laced tea. "So we've got to catch a murderer in about six minutes?"

Sherlock is _grinning_, damn him. "Oh, this is going to be _fun_."

…

Three minutes later, Sherlock's reduced several of the guests to tears, figured out that two are having an affair, one is cheating on his wife, and one suffers from a minor case of kleptomania.

But no killer,

It's not until Sherlock hears two redheads quietly discussing how long it took for them to make their costumes that he gets any sort of breakthrough.

"It's common for people to make the majority of their costumes by themselves?"

The first woman seems puzzled by the question, but the second answers. "Yes, we make most of our things. You can but the costumes online, but it's extremely expensive and not really in the steampunk spirit."

Sherlock grins, as if the answer is supporting one of his theories.

"And this is your… fourth time using that dress?"

"Yes… how did you-"

"There are four distinct patterns of wear… no matter." Sherlock has that look on his face that John knows means that all the pieces are falling into place, and that very soon…

"Mr… Chant, isn't it?"

The blond man looks slightly confused. "Yes… how did you know that?"

Sherlock snorts. "Though it's obviously a pseudonym, I heard one of the guests address you was such earlier. The question, Mr Chant, is why on earth you're at a meeting such as this when you've obviously no interest whatsoever in what's going on."

"What!? That's ridiculous! I… I…"

"You are wearing a cheap white dress shirt from the Marks & Spencer bargain bin, grey slacks from a suit that is at lest five years old and most likely purchased from a second-hand shop, and an extraordinarily tatty jacket and goggles set that you'd find in a second-rate costume shop- three of which are less than ten minutes walk from here. Furthermore, you've interacted very little with any of the guests in the time that you've been here, and you've specifically slicked your hair back with enough gel to stop a small-caliber bullet and worn a pair of gloves, ensuring that you would leave minimal evidence at the scene. Combined with the dents around your eyes from wearing a large monocle and the way you hold your shoulders, suggesting that you spend a great deal of time sitting hunched over, it's clear that you are a rather unsuccessful dealer of antiques who met with Heatherton in Croyden about an hour before everyone assembled here, with the intent of buying the buttons and selling them for a considerable profit. However, when he refused to sell, you removed your suit jacket, purchased a cheap costume to blend in with the other guests, with the intent of accosting Heatherton when he was alone in an attempt to recover the buttons. However, sometime during the conversation, you became upset, grabbed the candlestick, and killed him."

Mr. Chant sputters, turns red, pales just as quickly, and attempts to bolt. John is there in an instant, knocking him out cold and tying him to a chair with his cravat. Giving him a digusted look, he turns to Sherlock, (who looks not only like the cat that got the cream, but also the canary, the goldfish, and the milk jug) and asks the queation that is most probably on everyone else's mind. "How did Heatherton get his hands on these buttons anyway, if they're so valuable."

"Didn't you notice the calluses on his ring fingers? It's clear that he was part of the original group of thieves that ransacked the exhibit that the buttons were stolen from."

John is about to ask how on earth someone's ring finger can show whether or not they're a thief when he hears the muted drone of approaching sirens. That's their cue to be going. John slams the window open and jumps onto a conveniently thick tree branch. Sherlock follows, and the two are about to make a speedy exit when one of the guests re-assembles their wits and asks "You two just barged in here and solved a murder? _Who the hell are you?_"

Sherlock looks mildly surprised. "Oh, we've forgotten to introduce ourselves. That's… impolite?"

John resists the urge to push his flatmate off the limb. "Yes, Sherlock, it is." He gives the group a reassuring smile. "Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. You can tell the coppers that when they get here- they'll probably sputter a bit, but you might be questioned a bit less. Oh, and would you mind not telling them we went this way? It's a bit complicated"

He and Sherlock drop off the branch and head off further into the park (the clubhouse bordered a cricket field, which was far too open for John's liking), but still managed to hear the excitited murmurs that broke out.

"Sherlock Holmes? _The_ Sherlock Holmes?"

"We just met the Consulting Detective?"

"So that's John Watson- and he _knocked out_ a murderer!"

John shakes his head, and turns o his flatmate. "So, Sherlock- I guess this time, it was Mr. Chant, in _the study_, with _the candlestick_. Perhaps we should dig the Cluedo board out…"

If looks could kill, John would have been Sherlock's latest victim.

…

Constable Perkins was having an Extremely Bad Day.

First it had been the scary Government Official, then he had been part of the clean-up crew sent to collect Donovan and Anderson's team, then he had spilt his tea on the cute techie that he was pining over, and now he was in the middle of a murder investigation, watching that vein in Lestrade's forehead grow more and more pronounced as witness after witness brought up the same two names.

Sherlock Homes and Dr. John Watson.

He's heard the stories about them- that Sherlock's a psycopath who can tell your life's history from one of your fingernails and that John's an ex-Secret Service agent who can kill you with one of _his_ fingernails, but he's never believed them.

After all, they're only a consultant and his assistant with a knack for solving murders.

How much mayhem could they really cause?

**Oh, dear. It seems that I'm far too fond of torturing Perkins. **

**Have I really not updated since April? Goodness, I had no idea it had been this long- blame my feeble attempts to write a casefic, school, technical difficulties (I lost the USB key that has all my stories on it, so I've had to re-do this chapter), and my own damn laziness. I will start updating faster, I promise… maybe. **

**On a lighter note, the beautiful, amazing Mirus Infidus was wonderful enough to draw some fanart of Sherlock and John in their steampunk gear, and you can all go and wonder at it at /art/Sherlock-and-John-Steampunk-Lineart-319829728, just get rid of the space. It's brilliant!**

**Anyway, I make no guarantees for when the next chapter will be up, but please feel free to leave an idea you'd like to see in a review or send me a PM if I'm not being fast enough.**

**-InkySpectacles**


	9. The Eighth Hour

**Oh dear. It seems I haven't updated in… a very long time. Oops. Um, does three chapters make up for it? Just a little bit? Maybe? Well, enjoy!**

**The Eighth Hour**

Thirty minutes of flat-out sprinting later, they're out of the park and heading for St. Bart's. John keeps an eye above as Sherlock scans the streets, and they're forced to make several inconvenient detours to avoid attracting too much attention.

John vaults neatly over the last dire escape, and glares at the smug consultant. "Sherlock, when you said 'We can lose them with a quick detour', I wasn't exactly expecting to spend the next fifteen minutes traversing rooftops."

Sherlock drops down beside him with more grace than anyone in a bedraggled Victorian suit should be able to muster. "You weren't?"

All right, so he was. But it's still his job to act disgruntled about this sort of thing, just to maintain the illusion that one of them is even slightly normal.

…

Three back alleyways and an out-of-the-way side door later, they're striding down the hallways of St. Bart's and throwing open the morgue doors. …

Up until that moment, Molly had been having a rather dull day. Heart failure, asphyxiation, suicide, send that one through the cremator with some rock salt, stab wound, make sure that one stays dead (the scalpel would need replacing), _another_ stab wound…

Then Sherlock Holmes and John Watson burst in, looking as if they'd been dragged backwards through time and sideways through a gorse bush. Or nine.

But after John's explained their situation and forced Sherlock to promise that he'll ask the next time he wants to borrow a few feet, she's more than happy to help. The clothes are the first problem- luckily, they've both got another set in her bottom desk drawer (a precaution ever since the Exploding Larynx Incident).

Even though John's a little bit miffed about his missing jumper.

After all of that's sorted, there's a brief discussion about how they're going to stay out of trouble for the next several hours. But it's only when Molly remembers that a bunch of in-training Scotland Yard hopefuls will be at St. Bart's for a lecture on injury-based evidence that Sherlock shows any signs of interest.

John, in the poor students' best interest, tries to nip that in the bud.

"Absolutely not."

"But John! Think of the opportunity we have to ensure that the next generation of officers aren't a moronic as the last!"

"No way, Sherlock. The idea of you in a confined space with a hundred or so impressionable students doesn't bear thinking about."

"But John-"

"No."

"We have the chance to prevent the emergence of another agent as clueless as Anderson!"

Silence.

"I'm sure they would all benefit from some instruction on Emergency First Aid in Hazardous Situations!"

More silence.

"If you don't agree to help, I'll go in on my own, and you'll have no control over anything I decide to do."

_Damnit_.

John swears so violently that Molly blushes, and follows Sherlock out of the morgue.

…

**I almost pity those students… but think of the educational opportunity!**


	10. The Ninth Hour

**The Ninth Hour**

**Enter Sherlock and John, guest lecturers!**

They waylaid the professor so easily it's almost kind of frightening. A simple fake text and a bit of prodding about the possibility that one of his prize tarantulas might have escaped, and he runs right past them in his haste to hail a cab.

(Never mind that his flat has a strict no-pets regulation.)

John hastens to lay down a few ground rules for Sherlock- things like "No Poisoning Anyone" and "Unless Someone's Just Gone On A Killing Spree, There's No Need To Deduce Them In Front Of The Entire Hall".

Little things.

…

Sherlock swirls into the lecture hall, seemingly able to invoke a commanding presence even without his coat.

"Alright you lot, I'm Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson, yes, That Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and we'll be your guest professors today. Laptops and mobiles away, please- if I see so much as a twinkle of technology, we'll all take a trip down to one of the labs to see how advanced circuitry reacts with strong sulphuric acid. Yes, I can do that. No, don't take any notes, I want you to listen. With any luck, your lot won't be as thick as the rest of the Force when I'm done with you. Now, let's get started."

During the lecture that follows, John's not quite sure what's going on. Sherlock seems genuinely interested; especially when one of the students asks an intelligent question, or mentions a previous case they've worked on. It's not like he's being nice or anything, but he's only made three of them cry, and only one BlackBerry's met an unfortunate demise.

Make that two- apparently; tweeting during a lecture is "not good". Pity, that iPhone looked expensive… and new…

He has to commend him on the no-technology rule, though- be the time everyone's updated their status, they should be well away from here…

"And now Doctor Watson's going to give you a quick lesson on Emergency First Aid"

He turns and smiles at the class. This should be fun- after all, what could go wrong?

…

The class looks a bit green.

John's surprised- after all, he's only covered setting bones, emergency stitches, tourniquets, and Dealing With Blood.

Perhaps it's the last one? No, it started before that.

Maybe the PowerPoint wasn't such a good idea?

…

Mycroft is halfway though an excellent cup of tea when his mobile goes mad, as numerous youth access social media to talk about how they just had the best lecture ever, given to them by none other that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

He glares ruefully at the tea, and then calls on of his security personnel.

…

**Reviews are like a working sonic screwdriver during an alien invasion- wonderful.**


	11. The Tenth Hour

Is anyone else a fan of bamfy-ish Molly? And yes, I know this chapter is short, but we're kicking off a new mini-arc next chapter!

(This story is actually long enough to have mini-arcs? What have I gotten myself into?)

The Tenth Hour

Molly wasn't very surprised when two very normal-looking government employees walked into her morgue, and she was even less so when they started asking some rather pointed questions.

After she's reassured them, a bit tearfully, that no-one's been in and that she wasn't aware of something because no-one tells this little pathologist anything, they wander over to two other examination tables, both holding cadavers covered with white sheets.

As one begins to lift the sheet off, Molly is at his side in a moment. "You really don't want to do that; these two were just brought in today, but the police think they'd been lying in that bush a while- it's really not very pretty."

The sheet is quickly replaced, and the two agents leave, looking a bit green around the gills.

...

Molly whips the sheets off in one fluid motion, revealing Sherlock and John, the latter of which is struggling to control his giggling. "I thought you said you'd be well away before this happened!"

Sherlock looks annoyed. "I only realized the someone in the back corner was tweeting as we left, and there weren't any cabs." He looks confused, as if the idea of not being able to immediately hail a cab is altogether foreign. Molly bites back a smile.

It'll take about an hour for the agents to finish sweeping the building and leave, so John settles in to write up an earlier case, and Sherlock looks around for an interesting corpse to experiment on.

No such luck. Instead, Molly is quite insistent that he fills out the paperwork for the three sets of eyes he asked for several days ago, because she's too busy harbouring fugitives and doing autopsies to get around to it.

And since she's waving around a bone saw as she argues her point, Sherlock decides it's probably a good idea.

...

The rest of the hour passes by uneventfully, save for a small incident where Sherlock and John have to hide in a broom closet when a NSY officer comes by for a report.

For some reason, Molly thinks it's hilarious.

…

**So, there they are, three lovely shiny new chapters, and now I've got an announcement. You probably won't be seeing another chapter until December, because I've gone temporarily insane and decided to do NaNoWriMo. So I'm going to try and write a 50 000 word novel in a month. Did I mention I'm completely batty? So yes, there won't be any updates, because I'll be busy writing/drinking coffee/hitting my head against the wall. Fun times!**

**(Coincidentally, if there is an update, please tell me to start working on my novel again.)**

**Next Chapter- the 11th Hour! And yes, there will be MANY Doctor Who allusions. Because I'm that much of a Whovian. See ya in December!**

**-InkySpectacles**


	12. The Eleventh Hour

**First off, I must apologize. I had no idea that this would be so late, I didn't intend for this to happen… Let's just say that stuff happened, and I couldn't, and leave it at that. **

**Is needing to apologize in advance a bad thing? Because I had a perfectly sane chapter in the works before my inner Whovian took over and went on a rampage, which resulted in this chapter. I'm pretty pleased with it, though- this idea should last a couple of hours/chapters at least. Enjoy!**

**The Eleventh Hour.**

It's mid-afternoon, and Sherlock and John are sitting in yet another café, drinking very, very strong coffee. The sky is darkening, promising rain, and they're not quite sure if they've actually lost Mycroft or not.

Sherlock deduces that two of the couples are having affairs, three of the waiters are skimming from the till, and one of the chefs has attempted to murder the proprietor three times in the past two weeks.

They leave shortly afterwards he voices his deductions aloud and the chef comes out waving his cleaver, declaring that this time, _it'll stick_.

It seems like the most prudent course of action.

…

"Is there anything in particular you want for dinner?"

"Not really. I guess we can't go to Angelo's for pasta. We could drop by that new Indian place-"

"Sherlock I like a good curry as much as the next bloke, but when the sauce makes your eyes water _before it gets to the table_, I have to draw the line. We don't all have asbestos tongues!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes as they make their way down the street, keeping an eye out to see if the cameras are functioning again.

A nearby electronics store has all channels turned to BBC, so they stop to check the news. Just to make sure than Mycroft isn't playing dirty or anything.

Like the time when- _what?_

_Telecommunications providers are struggling to explain the mysterious text message that, apparently, has been sent to every phone in the London area. The text, which features three lines of alphanumerical symbols, has so far been indecipherable by several of London's leading cipher experts. Police are warning civilians not to reply to the text, as they believe it to be a scam. We will be covering further details as they appear, and until then, here's Arthur, covering the neck-and-neck football match currently underway between-_

John and Sherlock are already whipping out their phones, and, sure enough, they've both received the exact same text message, a line of letters and numbers that makes no sense whatsoever.

**Snjk1u23jsoii907dkr42**

"Ah!"

That is, makes no sense whatsoever to anyone _but_ Sherlock.

"If we apply that Byzantine code- translate it to German and the cross-reference it with that paper of Einstein's… combined with generic London A-Z…"

He's scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, and ignoring John's questioning look.

"Ah-hah! No, wait… this is a bit not good…"

John peers over Sherlock's shoulder and agrees that yes, it seems rather not good.

_Turn yourself in, Dinapoli, or we burn London to find you. _

"Oh, **bother**."

Sherlock looks at John, and he's seen that look often enough to realize that they should probably duck into the alleyway over there, because they're going to end up talking about things that aren't generally discussed on a busy street in broad daylight.

…

John is starting to think that it's impossible for him and Sherlock to do _anything_ without it turning into a situation straight out of a detective novel.

Sherlock is starting to wonder why the Mafia are so interested in one killer-for-hire (previous work in Moscow, Buenos Aires, Paris, and Berlin, about five foot three if Interpol's data was anything to go on, and a fondness for poisoned ceramic knives judging by his last three hits.)

He relays this data to John, who is so used to this sort of thing that he doesn't even bother to ask how he knows all of that. His only question is-

"So why do you think they're after him?"

"I'm not sure. Most assassins have a relatively short life expectancy- it isn't the safest working environment- but they're usually not bumped off without a good reason. You can;t go around killing all your assassins, or you've got to start outsourcing, and the Russians charge through the nose."

"So why do you think they're looking for him?"

"It could be any number of reasons, really… he could have killed someone he wasn't supposed to, he could have _not_ killed someone he was supposed to, he could have been seen flirting with the Don's daughter, or…"

"Sherlock, that wasn't a good 'or'. Or _what_?"

"Or he could have picked the wrong side in a recent Sicilian power struggle, offed a high-ranking government official in their pocket, and fled to London with three million pounds worth of stolen jewellery, including a ring that previously belonged to Napoleon."

"Ah. So, what are we going to do? Are they serious about burning London?"

Sherlock looks a bit grim. "That code is used almost exclusively by the _sicari_- the elite assassins that the Mafia hire when things are serious. They're notorious for not really understanding the idea of_ overkill_."

"So how to we stop them? All of them?"

Because it isn't "We need to go to the police" or "We should tell someone and get some help." This is _their_ city, and someone means it arm, and they have a problem with that. So they're going to do what they do best; they're going to break into where they shouldn't and they're going to try and do things a police squad wouldn't dream of and it's going to work, because it's what they do, what they love to do.

They head out of the alley and hail a cab, heading for the the Italian Embassy, the cabbie even agrees to treat the speed limit as a _suggestion _when Sherlock passes him a fifty.

John sinks back into his seat, determined to squeeze every drop of rest he can out of this car ride before they're running again. It's only then that the real absurdity of the situation catches up to him. He decides to run the situation by Sherlock again, just to make sure that he's not missing anything.

"So you mean that we've got to catch a killer, keep the elite Mafia assassins from hurting anyone while they try to find him, and find somewhere to have dinner, all while keeping ahead of Mycroft?"

"Precisely."

It was then that John decided that he'd gone completely mad. Because no sane person would be thrilled at the idea of such a daunting task, no sane person would be cataloguing all the known places where someone could hide from_ both_ sides of the law, and no sane person would be doing all of that while they tried to decide whether they wanted curry or Chinese for dinner.

**I've got a better idea of where the plot's going now, so the next update should be a bit sooner. However, I make no promises, simply because this annoying thing called the Real World has a habit of messing with my writing schedule. As always, your reviews, favourites, and follows are welcome, and I love reading them. Until next time, InkySpectacles out!**


	13. The Twelfth Hour

**Yes, I know it's been a while. Please don't hate me. See? There's a shiny new chapter to make up for me vanishing off the face of the earth for a while!**

**The Twelfth Hour**

They meet with a clerk from the Italian Embassy at a small restaurant about three blocks away. He is nervous; fiddling with his tie-pin and cufflinks, tapping his heel on the ground, and glancing around as if to make sure that no-one who would recognize him is anywhere nearby.

After ordering small espressos that cost twice as much as you's think they would, Sherlock starts in on his questions. When had Dinapoli arrived in London? Why had they waited until now to send out the _sicari_? Who had they hired, and who was organizing it?

The clerk, who John surmises is either a double agent, a triple agent, or working for Mycroft, is a useful source . He informs them that Dinapoli arrived in London about a week ago, the _sicari _had only been hired two days ago by a Sicilian employee, and it was Alrigo's crew.

At that news, Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Were they the ones responsible for that mess in Polynesia?"

"That's them."

Now John is feeling a bit out of the loop. "Polynesia?"

"You were in New Zealand at the time, having, as you put it, _an adventure_."

_Ah_.

Anyway, it appears that they've got their work cut out for them- this particular branch is known for it's ruthlessness, effectiveness ("only one person's ever escaped, and they committed suicide three minutes before they came through the door") and their leader's _massive_ egotistical and megalomaniacal tendencies.

Apparently, the man has a pet hairless cat. That does not bode well for his mental stability.

They pay for their coffees (John suspects the clerk has dosed his coffee with something a bit stronger, and does't blame the man) and go their separate ways. When they've covered a few blocks, John decides to voice his concern. "Do you think he's gone to Mycroft?"

For once, Sherlock is on the same page as him. "Almost certainly."

They duck into an alleyway just as the camera swivels in their direction.

…

Three rooftops and one rickety fire escape later, Sherlock is filling John in on his newest plan beside the back door of a dodgy looking chip shop.

It is, by far, the most ludicrous thing he has ever heard. Bear in mind, several hours ago, he was wearing a _cravat_.

"Hire them?_ Hire them_? You want to walk into an abandoned warehouse to meet several notorious hit men- who are currently planning to systematically detonate London- and say 'Hello chaps, I'm Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective and I'd like you to kill someone for me?' And you think THIS WILL WORK?"

John realizes that he's shouting a bit, but honestly, he thinks the situation calls for it.

Sherlock looks mildly perturbed. "No John, I am not going to say, as you put it, _Hello chaps, I'm Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective and I'd like you to kill someone for me_. No, the sicari are going to meet with a Belarusian mobster who's having a small problem with a disloyal employee, and would like to have the situation rectified." He pauses. "Do you think I could get them to kill Anderson?"

John moves to nip that in the bud "No. Lestrade would probably make sure that his replacement was worse." Then the rest of the conversation catches up to him. "Wait. A Belarusian mobster? Really? Where are we going to find a Belarusian mobster at this time in the afternoon… Oh, no. No, no, no. Sherlock Holmes, wipe that smirk off your face this instant thisisserious!"

Sherlock grins, and, layering on a thick Russian accent, smiles at him. "_Da. _I'm aware."

…

Once Sherlock has convinced John of how sound his plan is (read: threatened to do it on his own if John doesn't want to help), they turn to the matter of clothes. They've changed so often, John's starting to feel a bit ridiculous, but there can't be recognized this time.

Unfortunately, by now they've visited a lot of Sherlock's contacts already, so it takes a few minutes for them to figure out how they're going to get their hands on a couple of suits and the rest of the things they need.

The John has an idea.

"One of Harry's exes- she's rather nice, and we're still on friendly terms- might be able to give us a hand. It''s about twenty minutes west on foot."

Or fifteen minutes if you take a more…_ interesting_ route.

…

The sign, as all signs of this nature should be, is quiet and unobtrusive, hung over a black door with an antique brass knocker.

_Smithson & Mortimer Funeral Home_

Sherlock blinks one, twice, and decides that either John is mad, or really rather clever.

Jenny is a junior mortician, and bubblier than a shaken bottle of champagne. She reads John's blog, which helps, and is more than happy to lend out a couple of somber suits ("They're new, so don't look so dour, John") two pairs of shoes, and a place to change.

John has his own doubts about this, especially since he can't fake an accent to save his life. Sherlock is doing his best to assuage them, but… it's Sherlock.

"Really, John- I'm going to be doing the talking here. _You're_ going to be the bodyguard- you still have your gun, correct?- and all you have to do is look scary. Don't look at me like that! Just do that thing with your eyes that made Anderson take a week's sick leave and we'll be fine."

"That thing with my eyes?"

"The way you look at someone and it seems that you're thinking of all the ways you could kill them and hide the body."

Ah. That. At the time, he had been wondering if he could strangle Anderson with his bootlaces and make it look like an accident. (In his defence, the man was being more insufferable than usual at the time.) Apparently, it had shown on his face.

…

Jenny looks at them appraisingly. "The suits _work_, but you're still a bit too recognizable…"

And with that she opens her makeup bag.

…

Straightening Sherlock's hair has, contrary to John's original belief, turned him into a complete stranger. One with long hair. Granted, he looks a bit like an "emo" teenager, but it works. John, on the other hand, is wondering about whether or not the temporary dye in _his_ hair is going to run if... no, _when_ it starts to rain.

Jenny is setting up for another client when she cheerily waves them out, requesting that they return the suits if they're still in one piece after their… _meeting. _And John's agreed to mention her in his blog if he ever manages to write up the whole experience.

With that, they are out onto the street again, hailing a cab and heading towards the docks. Sherlock spends the first few minutes texting (as the cabbie goes on about his opinions concerning politics, religion, and the follies of today's youth), only putting his phone away when they break free from the traffic. "We're meeting them in about twenty minutes for a consultation. If we swing by the safe deposit box on the way, we should be able to make this work."

It's around this time that his phone beeps with a news update. Three warehouses- two of which Sherlock _knows_ are used for Mafia storage- have exploded. No one's been killed yet, but it's only a matter of time.

John leans back into the seat, feeling the cold metal of the gun pressing into his back. This has gotten very serious very fast, and they're going to need to be very careful if they're going to get out of this alive.

With that cheery though in mind, he stares out the window as the sky begins to cloud over.

…

**Well it's certainly been a while a while, hasn't it? Things have been a bit busy, but I've got a good idea about how this arc going to tie up, so you can expect to see another update… sometime. Not sure when. But it will happen, I promise- I'm having too much fun to stop!**

**As always, your reviews, ideas, favourites, and follows are appreciated from the bottom of my heart. **

**Until next time, **

**InkySpectacles**


	14. The Thirteenth Hour

**All right everyone, here's your chapter. Bear with me, I'm experimenting with a bit of a new style here, and I'm not sure how well it's going to work. However, I aim to please- if it sucks, let me know and you won't see it again. That being said, enjoy the chapter. This time: Sherlock and John vs. Scary Italian Assasins, Part 1!**

…

**The Thirteenth Hour**

_Present_

The warehouse is damp, cold, and filled with the customary crates and oil drums that are found in every warehouse in London. The few lights that still work flicker dimly, shrouding the corners in shadow and seriously impairing John's ability to check how everyone's armed.

Sherlock's Russian is cold and fluent, and he's even managed to speak Italian with a Russian accent to keep up the charade.

Even with that, they both know that their plan is foolish at best and suicidal at worst- it depends on several people they've never met before coming to several conclusions that they cannot force. It depends on them being good actors and better crooks, and it depends on them being able to stay in control.

And all of London depends on them to avoid some _serious_ property damage.

…

_An hour earlier_

Unknown to the two of them, Dinaploi had been using the same bank as they had to store his valuables. This wasn't unknown to the _sicari_, however- they'd been more than happy to blow up the entire place.

Sifting through the wreckage and concluding that they were several sniper rifles short of a god plan, Sherlock had remarked that "They're very psychologically oriented, Alrigio's crew."

John's attention is drawn back from avoiding the police to his flatmate long enough to catch the tail end of the man's sentence, and he replies with a noncommittal _Hmmm_?

Sherlock sees it as an opportunity to continue his exposition. "They've attacked his bank- the place where he keeps his things, his valuables. I've no doubt they'll go after his home next, or the place where he does business. They're making him feel scared and removing control from the situation. By the time they're through, he'll be on the verge of a nervous breakdown." He smiles wryly. "It's their standard MO, really- once they've isolated and unsettled the target, he's rather easy to pick off."

John is suddenly glad that they're still (mostly) anonymous in this situation. Though this does bring up a rather pressing issue…

"So how in the blazes are we going to outsmart them?"

Sherlock _grins_, and John recognizes that grin. He's seen it several times, and each time preceded something absolutely insane.

"I have a cunning plan."

They are, without a doubt, _absolutely screwed_.

…

_ Forty Minutes Earlier_

Sherlock heads for a local hardware store while John scouts out the warehouse where they've arranged to meet. He counts several snipers. They're actually easy enough to subdue; too busy watching for the two mobsters they're supposed to be meeting to pay attention to someone coming up behind them. He recognizes a few of them; Apparently, the _sicari_ aren't above hiring some of the local colour when the need calls for it.

And after his fist connects with their skulls, they're not really watching anything.

It's when he encounters the third sniper that he thinks they may just have a shot.

Said sniper is staring at him with an expression that's a mixture of anger, disbelief, and pants-wetting fear, and it only takes John half a second to recognize him.

He grins. They might just be able to pull this off.

"Hello, Barry. Thought you said you were going to keep your nose clean?"

(A bit of background: they had met Barry during a case involving an antique tea-set, an egyptian cult, and forty-three salamander figurines. Barry had been a sniper working for the Irish Mob, who were quite keen to get their hands on the tea-set. John still wasn't sure why. Anyway, he'd seemed like a nice enough bloke and had been blackmailed into the whole mess, so they had been willing to let him off with a warning.

Which, evidently, he hadn't heeded.)

Barry begins to stammer an explanation, but is cut off when John raises a hand. "No, I'm not going to ask why you're here, and I'm not going to turn you into the police- that is, I won't turn you in if you're willing to help me with a small matter."

Barry nods so enthusiastically that, for a second, John's worried his head might actually fly off.

"Now, here's what I need you to do…"

…

_Twenty Minutes earlier_

Sherlock meets up with him several blocks away, carrying a box under his arm. After John assures him that Barry is now rather firmly on their side, he outlines the rest of the plan. It is, to put it bluntly, completely mental. He informs Sherlock as such.

"-And not in the just-crazy-enough-to-work way, either! We're going to get killed, you know. Anyway, how of you know that Alrigio's going to show up in the middle of the job?"

"Professional courtesy, John. One must always be willing to meet with new clients. Since he's busy, however, he won't arrive until jut before the arranged time- hence the snipers, for security- so we've got a chance to get set up. And it's during that meeting that we'll catch him"

And with that, they head back to the warehouse. They've got work to do.

…

_A few minutes ago_

They are standing in the middle of the warehouse when Alrigio and several of his bodyguards arrive. The assassin is a slight, with outrageously pale hair and a spotless white suit; John would be tempted to laugh if he didn't know that the man had killed more men than anyone else they'd faced. The bodyguards are standard muscle, clad in suits tailored to fit their refrigerator-like frames, and they stand on either side of their employer like silent monoliths. They're all wearing fedoras, for some reason.

That settles it. Alrigio is insane.

John grits his teeth. An office building has just gone up in smoke, injuring at least a dozen people. It's only a matter of time before someone gets killed. They have one chance to do this. Their plan is suicidal, they're outnumbered four to one, and Sherlock's hair is starting to frizz from the damp.

Sherlock (calling himself Nicholas, here) and Alrigio shake hands with the sort of icy politeness that only mobsters can pull off. Then Sherlock takes out a picture and the negotiations begin.

Craning his head, John starts. It's a picture of _Mycroft_.

He steels himself. Unless they play their parts perfectly, this could all go very, very badly.

**And here's a cliffy. Don't worry, I'm updating the next chapter shortly- and not my usual shortly, I've already got it written!**


	15. The Fourteenth Hour

**And here it is, folks! Sherlock and John vs. the Scary Italian Assassins, Part 2!**

**The Fourteenth Hour**

Sherlock and Alrigio have been haggling over a price for ten minutes now. John takes the opportunity to size up the bodyguards. He knows he needs to get them off-balance if this is going to work.

They're your standard thugs- unassuming faces, no tattoos, marks, or piercings that could identify them, and the same blank stare that tells him they're giving him the once-over as well.

John thinks for a second, and then resists the urge to grin. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic bedy straw, the sort that you can find at any fast-food outlet. Slowly, he begins to flip it over his fingers, giving the thugs a pleasant smile as he does so.

He is rewarded when they go slightly pale and start to sweat.

Sherlock notices this, looks back at him, and John is treated with one of Sherlock's rare expressions of utter befuddlement, only seen before when he'd asked Sherlock to stop instigating they were a couple, using his cheekbones to manipulate Molly, or ending electrical currents into a brain after they'd watched a zombie movie.

He treasured those moments.

Nonetheless, Sherlock resumed speaking with the Italian assassin, and it looked like they might be getting somewhere, until Alrigio switches to English.

"You actually thought I was going to fall for this?"

This is bad. This is very, very bad.

"Anyone who's worth their weight in gunpowder knows you Mr. Holmes- and you too, Mr Watson. So the question is, are you going to tell me exactly why you're looking to kill your brother, or am I going to have to put a bullet though your head?"

Oh no. Oh no. Ohno _ohno ohnoohnoohno…_

Sherlock forces himself to stay calm and meets Alrigio's eyes. He's asking for their motive, so he might as well tell him. "We're looking to take Dinapoli in. You attempting to flatten London is interfering with that."

Alrigio snarls, all trace of politeness gone. "And you're interfering with my work, _Holmes._"

John feels a bit left out. The feeling rapidly disappears as the thugs move forward, seemingly intent of subduing the pair of them. Things are about to get very dicey.

The first one heads straight for Sherlock, who's whipped out his phone and is rapidly keying in a command. He ducks to avoid the first blow as John moves in to cover him. He knows that he can only hold out for so long before they outnumber him by sheer numbers, so Sherlock better work fast-

And with the suddenness of a flipped switch (it is a switch actually, combined with a great deal of wire and a cellphone receptor), the warehouse is blanketed with laser sights.

Everyone freezes. It's instinctive. From his vantage point near the exit, Alrigio finally loses it. "No one can have that many snipers, you morons- _they're using laser pointers! Get them!"_

And that's when one of the thug's hats is blown clean of his head.

…

Sherlock disentangles himself from the mess and walks over to Alrigio. He's in his element here- tall, imposing, and scary as hell. "Oh, I agree we're using laser pointers- they give such a nice effect- but the thing is, _we've got snipers too_. So the question is, which of these-" he gestures to the numerous red dots "-are laser pointers, and which of them are snipers? _And what happens if you choose wrong?_"

There is the sound of sirens outside. Sherlock looks vaguely startled at this, so John moves to enlighten him. "I took the liberty of phoning the police a bit earlier- tipped them off about a Mob deal going down near this location." He smiles. "Which is, I think, our cue to leave."

And with that, he and Sherlock do just that.

…

Everything's buzzing with news of the arrests of a high-profile assassination ring, responsible for the earlier... _incidents_. Dinapoli is in custody too, on charges of theft, fraud, and embezzlement- for now. And Sherlock and John are walking through High Park, still trying to decide what to do for dinner.

"Curry?"

"No."

"Chinese?"

"No."

"Thai?"

"_Definitely_ not."

"You've got to pick _something_, Sherlock!"

"I already suggested we go to Angelo's-"

"Where we'll be arrested as soon as we walk in the door. We need to go somewhere where Mycroft wouldn't think to look for us, somewhere out of the way, somewhere like-"

And then John has an absolutely brilliant idea. "Get a cab. I know exactly where we're going."

"Where?"

John grins. "The Lance and Shield."

"A _pub_?"

"Yup. How else do you think I survived medical school?"

…

**Well. A two-chapter update- aren't I wonderful? Let me know what you think in a review- I always like hearing your feedback, positive or negative. I hope to have the new chapter up soon, and we'll be starting a new arc; The Bar and the Bard!**


	16. The Fifteenth Hour

**Gasp! What is this- an on-time update? I not sure how well it turned out, but it's not going to get any better the longer I stare at it, so here you go!**

**The Fifteenth Hour**

The pub is packed with people- students tucking into the daily special, friends meeting for a pint and a chat, and a few lone souls hunched over their drinks at the counter. John gets them a table at the back and heads up to the bar as Sherlock leans back and lets his eyes scan over the crowd. Belatedly, he realizes that John has picked the one table in the place that's absolutely perfect for people-watching; it's in a quiet corner, unobtrusive, and gives a clear view of the entire area.

John can be quite thoughtful that way.

The aforementioned doctor soon returns, bearing two pints and the drinks menu. He sets everything down and slides onto the bench to sit next to Sherlock. "Any idea what a Contessa's Garter is? The barkeep just spent ten minutes trying to convince me to buy one."

Sherlock pauses for a moment. "I think it involves vodka, egg white, and half a lemon. I wouldn't suggest you order it- last time I remember someone actually drinking one, they woke up with no memories of the past three days and a anatomically incorrect tattoo on their stomach."

John stares at him with no small amount if incredulity. "And who was that?"

Sherlock grins. "Anderson. Though, in all fairness, he did have three of them..."

John is spared the mental image by the arrival of their meal. He had thought about all the running that they were most likely going to spend the rest of the night doing and ordered the House Student Special; an enormous plate of Shepherd's pie, buttered carrots, and mint peas, as well as two extra pints.

He meets Sherlock's bemused gaze with a grin. "I ate this five or six times a week when I was in school. It's the best price for a student that can't cook- you had coffee in the morning, this at night, and spent the rest of the time studying- or getting into trouble. There was this one time…" and John proceeds to tell Sherlock about the time that he and his friends, fuelled by half a bottle of Blue Label and the rush that comes with finishing exams, spent a night affixing Guy Fawkes masks to every statue in a ten-block radius before passing out in the bushes outside their flat.

He's halfway through explaining how they'd managed to throw the police off their track by pretending to be Americans when a barstool slams into the wall over their heads, effectively cutting him off. A scuffle had broken out between two burly men who'd suddenly discovered that they'd both been dating the same girl for about three months. Evidently, they had decided to settle the matter the only way they knew how- by attempting to beat each other into submission. One stray punch and the rest of the pub had followed suit, settling old grievances with a well-placed chair.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the scene- or at least the bit they can see from where they're crouched under the table. "Did _this_ happen often when you were a student?"

John laughs. "More than you'd expect. I think everyone's used to it by now- they just tack a surcharge onto the bill, and I think they've got special insurance. Though we may want to leave before someone starts flipping tables over."

They weave through the crowd and out into the… pouring rain. The sort of rain that can only happen on a London evening when there are no cabs in sight. After walking less than two blocks they're both soaked to the skin, and there's a black car following them that just _screams_ Mycroft. Sherlock glances around before tugging on John's sleeve, and the next thing he knows, they're dodging across the road, down a one-way street, and crouching under a fire escape as a few men in blacks suits try to decide whether they should risk pneumonia or their bosses' wrath. This lot seems to have less self-preservation than most, as the execute an absolutely _appalling_ search before returning to their nice, heated car.

This doesn't mean they're safe, Sherlock points out, before he leads John through a few back ways to a door covered with a peeling poster advertising a production of _Richard III. _He knocks on the door and is greeted by an enthusiastic woman wearing enough makeup for three who calls them both "darling" and escorts them inside.

It's a theatre: a hole-in-the-wall theatre from the nineteenth century, where Sherlock worked for three months trying to flush out a suspect for a case. They're both starting to steam from the heat backstage, and John is happy to see the curl returning to Sherlock's hair. The woman, who introduces herself as Christine, is happy enough to chat to them while she shepherds stagehands around as they rush to get ready for a production of what John thinks might be _Hamlet_. After showing them to the greenroom, she dashes off to see the actors.

John is once again not halfway through his (wonderfully warm) cup of tea when she returns, clutching the doorframe for support and grey under her makeup. "Sherlock- you said that you work as a detective, yes?"

John sets his tea down, awaiting the inevitable as Sherlock acquiesces.

"Then," she continues, "you had better see this." She leads them through several hallways to one of the dressing rooms, where they find a young woman, dressed to play Ophelia, sitting at her dressing-table, soaking wet, and dead.

***Ominous Music* I really couldn't resist this; ****_Hamlet_**** is one of my favourite plays (especially the David Tennant version XD), so this plot is coming quite naturally. Don't expect another quick update though- RL seems to want to drive me mad. Ah well...**

**-InkySpectacles**


	17. The Sixteenth Hour

Oh, _dear. _It has been rather a while, hasn't it. Erm, sorry about the wait, and here's a lovely five-page chapter as a thank-you for your patience!

…

**The Sixteenth Hour**

Christine is, rather understandably, quite distraught at the loss of one of her actors. She collapsed into a chair near Horatio's dressing room and stayed there, sipping the glass of brandy that one of the lighting boys had thought to give her. The rest of the actors cluster around, twittering like a flock of birds in Shakespearean garb.

Sherlock and John are combing the dressing room for clues and hoping the police don't arrive too quickly.

From where he is crouched under a table, Sherlock hears John sigh. "Pardon?"

"I said," John repeats "that it's beginning to appear like I can't take you anywhere without someone getting bumped off. When was the last time we went out and it didn't turn into a case?"

Sherlock thinks for a minute. Then another one. "Three Wednesdays ago, when we went to that new curry place for lunch."

John pinches the bridge of his nose and resists the urge to strangle his flatmate. "The only reason there wasn't a murder was because we managed to pry them apart, Sherlock!"

Sherlock is ready to argue that, but John cuts him off. "So, dead actress, playing Ophelia, looks like she drowned. Disturbingly poetic, but does it give us a clue about who did it?" He has checked to body over to find marks on her neck where she was probably held underwater, but there aren't any signs of a struggle, no defensive wounds. It's starting to unnerve him.

It's at that moment that Christine knocks on the door. She is swaying a little, but her colour is better. "The police should be here shortly- Alice, she does the props, called them a few minutes ago. Have you found anything to do with Elizabeth's murder?"

* * *

><p>The wardrobe is dark and musty, and probably contains more dust than costumes. But as they've only got a few minutes before the police arrive, it's the best they've got. The suits they wore a few hours ago are back at the funeral parlour, and there's no way they can pull one over the police in their normal clothes.<p>

John drags out two plain back suits and a couple of waistcoats as Sherlock rummages through the wigs. In a little under five minutes, two bland-looking agents (MI6, according to the IDs that Sherlock's attempting to weather with some tea and a hair-dryer) are standing in front of a mirror. John hands Sherlock a pair of contacts as he slides on some spectacles, and tries to ignore how itchy his wig is. "What names are we using?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Sometimes, John wonders about the man. "_Names, _Sherlock. We can't go around saying we're agents Holmes and Watson, they'll arrest us in a flash. So what are we going to call ourselves?"

Sherlock is about to say something when they hear the sirens. Rushing, they only just manage to meet the officers that are crowding the entryway. Before Sherlock has a chance to say anything, John finds himself holding up an ID and announcing, with more bravado than he thought possible, "Officers, so glad you could assist us. I'm Agent Sitwell, and this is my partner, Agent Coulson."

The officers have the decency to only look _mildly _skeptical.

Luckily, Sherlock seems to have caught on to the whole situation, and steps in. "We drew the short straw for code names, I'm afraid- Bond and Q were laughing at us for weeks."

One of the officers still isn't convinced. "You use fictional names as code-names? Why are you even using codenames here?"

Think Thinkthink_think_. What's a reason the police might buy?

Ah-hah! "Because we're obliged to help if we're in the area, but if we use our real names, there are twenty different forms we have to fill out. And I'm not sure who thought of the codenames plan, but it's been tradition for at least seventy years"

The officers wince in sympathy, before introducing themselves. The names of the three constables are instantly forgotten, but the Sergeant, Hawkins, seems a bit familiar.

John thinks for a minute, and then remembers that he was one of the ones they'd dealt with during the aftermath of one rather eventful case involving a travelling circus and three irritated snakes.

As forensics isn't due to arrive for a little while longer, John pulls on a pair of gloves and begins to examine the body. Again, it's odd; though it's clear she drowned, there's no signs of a struggle- at all. That is, until… _ahhh. _

So that's how they did it.

* * *

><p>Sherlock interviews suspects in the next room with Hawkins. He's being as polite as he can, just to maintain the façade, but the man just grates on his last (and according to John, <em>only<em>) nerve.

"And then they tell me that forensics won't be along for a while because they're dealing with the warehouse explosion and the load of mob hitmen they've got rounded up, and so I want to tell them exactly where they can stick their protocol, but that's against protocol, which means that-"

"Perhaps," Sherlock forces out through gritted teeth, "we can get back to the matter at hand?"

Hawkins smiles good-naturedly as the head of props walks in.

* * *

><p>Forty minutes later, they're meeting in Christine's office while the officers gather the suspects in the next room. (A bit Christie, but no one's about to argue with the classics.)<p>

Sherlock was actually a bit surprised to see just how much intrigue fit into one small theatre; it seemed like everyone was sleeping with everyone else, trying to get everyone else's job, or trying to impress someone by making someone else look bad. It's amazing they managed to narrow it down to four suspects.

-Mr. Matthews, the props manager, was annoyed that Elizabeth was upstaging Maureen, the actor playing Gertrude, who he was having an affair with.

-Ms. Ricks, the head of costumes, had found the girl swiping a few props to sell online a few weeks back

-Sebastian was a stagehand whom Elizabeth had had a romantic relationship with, and hadn't taken her breaking it off well,

-And Mr. Hastings, the director of the play, seemed as if he wanted to murder the entire cast and crew, not to mention the officers, audience, and anyone else who interrupted his artistic "vision".

Sherlock is in his element here, strutting in front of the lot of them as Christine and the officers watch from by the door. "All of you had a reason- or at least some smidgen of motive- that could tie you to this rather… _tragic_ event. All of you claim to have been alone in some part of the theatre during the time of the incident, a fact I find hard to believe when it's an hour before opening night. And all of you have been nothing but defensive and skittish throughout your interviews, though" he amends, "that is rather normal among individuals being questioned by police."

John resists the urge to tell him to get to the point.

Sherlock smiles. "I will admit the method was clever; injecting a sedative behind her ear and placing her face in a basin of water while she was unconscious. Drying her off afterwards was also quite considerate of you- every actress wants a beautiful death scene, or so I'm told. However, you made one small mistake."

He smiles. It is not a nice smile- more like the smile a snake gives a mouse, just before it strikes.

"Elizabeth had just come from having an argument with Ms Ricks over her costumes, and had locked herself in her dressing room, crying."

He pauses, as if to let the information sink in, though John knows it's really for dramatic effect.

"Who would have had a key to her room?"

As one, all eyes in the room turn, and settle on…

Christine.

* * *

><p>As the officers cuff the woman, John leans on the wall next to Sherlock. "You knew it was her all along, didn't you?"<p>

Sherlock snorts. "Of course. It was clear as day from the moment I saw her overdoing the hysterics. I just needed to go through the motions of interviews- and get your cause of death- to be certain in the eyes of the law."

John smiles. "That's not all of it, is it? What was with the _theatrics_, then?"

Sherlock's looks pensive. "Christine was playing Titania when I was investigating here five years ago. She outshone everyone else on the stage. And it's common knowledge-" his grin is rueful- "that every actress wants a beautiful death scene."

It's then that they realize their disguises are going to run out of steam very quickly when it's found out that there _aren't _any MI6 agents in the area.

Ten minutes later, the suits and wigs are a crumpled heap on the floor of the wardrobe, and Sherlock and John are dashing through another series of back alleyways as the sound of sirens congregates around the theatre.

And Sergeant Hawkins has the most _unbelievable _story to tell the lads at the pub the Wednesday.

* * *

><p><strong>See? I didn't forget this story! And I've vowed to finish it before summer is over. (Though whether I'll be able to make good on that promise is another matter.) Anyway, feel free to favourite, follow, and review- I always look forward to reading what people think of my work! Until next time,<strong>

**-InkySpectacles**


	18. The Seventeenth Hour

**The Seventeenth Hour**

They end up walking through St. James Park, keeping a careful eye on the shadows between the tree. As they pass by the duck pond, Sherlock takes a look at the few souls who seem to think that this hour of the night is appropriate for feeding ducks.

"I think today's been a bit messy, politically. "

It's a bit of a non-sequiter, even for Sherlock, so John feels that his current facial expression is a bit justified.

Sherlock notices, and, (for once), explains. "It's a well-known fact among certain circles that the duck pond in St James' Park has been the neutral meeting ground for any and all secret agents and spies in London since… well, since there was a pond. "

He points. "The tall one in the greatcoat standing by that tree? Russian. He's talking to a Chinese agent. Belarus is negotiating with America over there, and that's an Italian talking to one of Mycroft's men."

John starts at this. "One of Mycroft's? Shouldn't we be going then?"

"No reason to. Again, this place is neutral; no assassinations or arrests happen within the boundaries of the park. Outside it, on the other hand… well, no one plays dirty like a spy."

"Good to know. Maybe we'll come here more often."

They seat themselves on a nearby bench and people-watch for a while, Sherlock gleefully identifying and deducing, and John listening to him, occasionally requesting a more in-depth look at one of the passers-by. He points to two figures, one blond, in a tartan scarf and camel's-hair coat, and the other in all black, snakeskin shoes, and for some unknown reason, _sunglasses._

"What about them?"

Sherlock takes a long minute to observe- longer than usual.

"They are either two agents on opposing sides of an extremely long-winded conflict, or-" and here he tilts his head to the side, as if to get a look from another angle "on a date."

And with that odd pronouncement, he alights from the bench and motions for John to follow him.

* * *

><p>About ten minutes after exiting the park, they've already dodged three suspicious-looking black cars. Even though Sherlock assures him that one of them actually belongs to a mafia associate who wished to thank them for dealing with the Dinapoli affair.<p>

"Forgive me," says John as they duck into an alleyway as the vehicle drives past, "for not wishing to deal with the Mafia so soon after helping to arrest one of their top assassins.

"You're forgiven."

John resists the urge to shove the man into a nearby puddle. "Isn't that Molly's flat?"

Sherlock looks up. "Yes. Your point being?"

"We should go in for a quick visit. To say thank you for covering for us earlier today."

An eyebrow is raised. "And what's to say Mycroft won't take the opportunity to swoop in like some fat falcon?"

John stifles a grin at the imagery. "Because _we_ set up her security system, and none of his agents willingly go within a block of that place after the crossbow misfired."

This is true. Though Sherlock wouldn't say that the crossbow had necessarily _misfired_…

* * *

><p>They dodge a taxi as they cross the street, and are knocking on Molly's door in a matter of minutes. She pulls it open and leans against the frame, an expression of relief on her face. "Thank God you're here."<p>

For a second, John's a bit worried. "I something the matter? Are you all right?"

She smiles wryly. "Oh, I'm fine, I'm just-"

A crashing sound is heard within the flat.

"Babysitting." She opens the door wide and motions them inside. "You can stay for a bit, but only if you help watch my niece and nephews."

As they follow her inside, John can't help but grin to himself.

_This should be interesting…_

* * *

><p><strong>Oh my! What is this? Could it be... an update?<strong>

**Sorry about the wait and the short chapter; I've been doing my best to keep up with this, but things are pretty crazy at the moment. I'm going to stick with this story until the end, but as to when that will be... well, patience is a virtue. Though hopefully the next update will be sooner than later. In the next chapter; Treasure Island, chocolate biscuits, and _Being Human_!  
><strong>

**(A virtual cookie to whoever noticed the wee little crossover in this chapter. You have excellent taste in literature.)**

**Until next time, **

**InkySpectacles**


	19. The Eighteenth Hour

**Goodness, it's been a while... I have a legitimate excuse, honest! Things have been a bit nuts recently, but here's a new chapter for everyone.  
><strong>

**The Eighteenth Hour**

Molly's niece and nephew are in the process of dismantling the couch when Sherlock and John walk in. Twyla is doing her best to pile the cushions to form a makeshift barrier, while her little brother Eric is attempting to tape a hand-drawn pirate flag to the arm. Six-month old Albert, they are told, is asleep in the spare room.

The rest of the room looks like it's been through a small war, or a large tornado.

Molly looks at Sherlock and John as if to confirm that they're not going to run, and then flees herself, disappearing into the back bedroom quicker than Sherlock can incite someone to punch him.

The two of them stare at the two small children, who have abandoned their efforts to create what John assumes _might_ be a pirate ship, and are staring at the new arrivals.

Sherlock stares back at them.

Finally, John gets fed up with the whole situation and crouches down in front of Eric.

"Are you building a pirate ship?"

Eric nods shyly, and Twyla takes over.

"Yes we are. I'm going to be the pirate captain and I'll be like Captain Sparrow but I forgot my hat so not really, and Eric's supposed to be first mate but he says he's rather be a musketeer because Mummy told him the story last week and he thinks they're cooler than pirates, but he's wrong and-"

Sherlock cuts in before the little girl can pass out. There's an almost _wicked_ gleam in his eye as he regards Twyla. "Who says you can't be a pirate, and he can't be a musketeer?"

John suddenly remembers the conversation he had with Mycroft about Sherlock's childhood ambitions.

_Oh, brother._

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, Eric and John the Musketeers have just finished hanging their flag over the large chair as Captain Twyla and First Mate Holmes set up a fan behind the ship's sail- a broom and sheet liberated from the hall cupboard. The Musketeers are defending London from the pirates, who want to steal the treasure (a pack of chocolate biscuits from the kitchen). The pirates are setting up their cannons (pea-shooters that Molly gave Twyla last Christmas), and Eric has a small model catapult that can launch a variety of small projectiles. Including jelly babies.<p>

The battle is fierce- they go through two bags of candy in the first minute- and rapidly devolves into the two involved parties launching cushions, socks, and anything else within reach at each other.

Sherlock maintains that he and Twyla are most certainly winning, right up until Eric pegs him with a jelly baby between the eyes. From the slightly manic grin in his eye, it's clear he's eaten at least half a bag himself.

The brave pirates are about to launch a counter-offensive involving a whole tray of ice cubes when the lights flicker. Molly is standing in the doorway, looking murderous.

John idly thinks that she must have been taking lessons from Mrs. Hudson to get that expression. It's all in the eyebrows.

The he notices that she's holding her mobile, which means that…

"You have ten minutes to clean up. Any longer, and Lestrade gets at least six months worth of blackmail. You're lucky Albert didn't wake up."

Stupid camera phones.

* * *

><p>With the vacuum's help, they do manage to get everything cleaned up in time, and Molly packs the kids off to bed while they drink tea on the reconstructed couch. Several biscuits later they're out the door.<p>

* * *

><p>Molly flopped down onto the chair, and starts a pre-recorded episode of <em>Downtown Abbey <em>on low volume while she waits for her sister to pick up. Finally…

"Hello, Susan? Yes, it's Molly. Yes, they're all fine and asleep. No, they've been wonderful. How's Los? Glad to here it. Listen, you're not going to believe what just happened… remember how I was telling you about the two blokes I work with sometimes, the detective and the doctor? Yes, _the hot ones_. Well, they were just over…"

* * *

><p><strong>I'm not entirely sure when the next update will be, but I'll get it out as quickly as possible. As always, you comments and suggestions are appreciated.<strong>

**See you soon!**

**-InkySpectacles**


	20. The Nineteenth Hour

**The Nineteenth Hour**

**Oh. Erm… it **_**has**_** been a rather long time, hasn't it? I am sorry. Really, I am, I've been wanting to finish this, but life's been getting in my way. Specifically, preparing for, packing, and attending my first semester at University. I'm loving it, but it leaves precious little time for writing. But don't worry. I'm sworn to finish this story, and I will.**

**Anyway, it's too interesting for my to abandon. **

Night has well and truly fallen- not in the "it's gotten dark" way, but in the way that is alike a switch being thrown in the city- new businesses (_most_ of them legal) are opening as others shut their doors, gaggles of partiers are weaving their way from bar to bar, and pickpockets are doing a brisk trade

Naturally, it's decided another coffee wouldn't hurt. The café owner is a large Italian with an espresso machine whose pipes gleam in the dim light, and serves drinks in what John swears are doll's teacups. The spoon stands up in his.

Slightly more alert, they make their way through the city, keeping a careful eye on the passers-by around them. Sherlock keeps up a low-volume commentary, occasionally asking John to make a note of someone- "I refuse to believe that's a bank CEO, Sherlock" "Look at his sleeves, it's perfectly clear!"- and after John nearly breaks a would-be pickpocket's fingers, they're left well enough alone.

Unfortunately, being awake and running for nineteen hours straight is starting to take a toll on the both of them. Sherlock grumbles about how Mycroft's probably got afresh batch of agents running after them while he has a nap, the _arse_, but they've not got that option.

Which is why when John says he has an idea, Sherlock is mostly quizzical, and just a _little_ (though he'd never admit it) worried.

The cab driver remarks on his poor memory for faces when they pass him a few extra bills, and before long, they're pulling up in a front of a garishly painted building with a blinking neon sign- _The Merchant of Azeroth._

Sherlock looks at John as if he's grown three heads.

The interior is dim, with crates of comic books and posters lining the walls. The shopkeeper is asleep at his desk, and John strides past, opening a door covered with a poster about some alien video game to reveal-

At least twenty adolescents and twenty-somethings clustered around a bank of computers.

(_Now_ Sherlock remembers. There had been a case of a murder at a fan convention, and these had been a few of the people they'd interviewed while trying to figure out how a six-foot tall man wearing prosthetic ears and teeth, and carrying a battle-ax, had managed to vanish without a trace from a crowded hall and re-appear impaled on a nearby fence post.

It had been an interesting weekend. He had deleted the attendees themselves, but the murder had been original enough that it hadn't been _completely_ boring. )

Everyone is happy enough to see them, and were close to killing themselves laughing as John recounted the night's events. When he finishes, he stifles another yawn. It's not that he's usually tired around this time- he's just been up since some ungodly hour of the morning, and this day's involved more legwork than their last three cases put together.

A bespectacled youth with pink dip-dyed bangs falling into her eyes notices this, removes her gaming headset, introduces herself as Jane and inquires about how much coffee they've drank.

John's actually lost count.

"Because," she continues, "If this seeker of yours really wants to win, these last few hours are going to be pretty crucial. You won't have time to stop, let alone get a drink."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrow in the way that John has come to realize means he's miffed someone's voiced one of his ideas before he has. John ignores him, and motions for her to continue.

"We have the same problem, you see. Right now we're playing some Australians, and the time zones are so different one of use is always playing late at night."

John considers this for a second. "Have you considered getting up earlier to play then?"

His is met with approximately twenty-three blank stares.

"Never mind."

"As I was saying, we're playing against Australians, so it's really weird hours. We tried energy drinks for a while, but they never seemed to work, and in the end…" It's at this point that she takes a hearty swig out of a nearby mug.

"We made our own. So I was wondering…"

_Now_ Sherlock is interested, which has John worried.

"Would you like to try some?"

…

The kitchenette at the back of the shop is cluttered with stacks of books and folders, with an array of coffee-stained mugs functioning as impromptu paperweights. John notes at least three uni textbooks in the mess- evidently, studying is taking a backseat to games.

(Which, incidentally, bears a striking resemblance to his own university career. If, of course, you replace "online gaming" with "elaborate pranks that more often than not involving the various statues dotting campus, and leading to the faculty attempting to ban everything from shaving cream to Father Christmas hats." The fact that the lot of them had managed to avoid being disciplined or thrown out altogether is nothing short of a miracle.)

The coffeemaker, sitting in a place of honour by the stove, looking more suspicious than the rest of the kitchen. The traditional glass pot had been replaced by a stainless steel jug, there was an espresso machine mounted to the side and secured with what looked like duct tape, and there were several cans and bottles of various energy drinks lined up beside it.

John pinched the bridge of his nose in a manner that he was starting to connect with Sherlock and his associated madness. "I don't suppose you've checked out what drinking this sort of thing does to your body? Consulted a doctor at all?"

Jane shakes her head. "Not exactly. Ed cobbled the thing together halfway through a raid three months ago, but we have been careful. Only one cup a night, and absolutely no booze and hour before or any time afterwards."

This isn't perfect, but coming from a group of people in the age bracket that comes with assumed immortality, it's probably the best John's going to get. He makes a mental note to stop by sometime later and check up on them all, though- you can never be to careful.

"So," Sherlock cuts in from where he's been absorbed studying a selection of papers, "What do you call this stuff, anyway?"

Jane grins. "Klatchian Coffee."

And with that, the machine gives off a cheerful-sounding _ding!_ and apparently, coffee is ready.

She fetches two mugs, and half-fills them with a thick brown coffee and three spoons of sugar. Then, the rest of the mug is topped up with Red Bull and what John swears is-

"_Hot Sauce?_"

"It improves the taste. "

The mugs are passed to them, and John eyes his warily before taking a swig.

The taste, he thinks, as she does his best not to choke, is not at all dissimilar to the alcohol that one of his friends had once made in a home-built still in the back shed. Which was to say, it kicks like a draft horse, brings tears to your eyes, and makes you wished you'd been clever enough to stick with tea.

But _damn, _he's wide awake. And by the way Sherlock is blinking, so is he.

They politely thank their hosts and wish them good luck- apparently, they've managed to turn the raid in their favour- and head back out into the night.

Three streets away, Sherlock looks up and curses like a sailor. John follows his gaze to see one of the street cameras swivel towards them.

"Frankly," Sherlock muses as they make their way onto the rooftop, "I'm amazed it managed to last for so long. MI6 Is probably going to do their best to recruit him."

John elects to stay silent and instead takes in their surroundings. It won't be too hard to travel this way- the buildings are flat-roofed and close enough together- but he wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft has some more nasty surprises to throw at them.

And they're off, leaping from building to building, the light pollution of the city obscuring the stars and turning the sky such an orange colour it might be on fire.

**A/N: I should say, I have absolutely no experience with MMORPGs, and therefore am being intentionally vague about the whole thing, in order to avoid any glaring errors. (Did I miss something? Let me know!)**

**So, readers-let's test your knowledge. Counting this chapter, how many coffees have Sherlock and John drank so far?**

**(My imaginary lawyer points out that I should tell you all that this is in no way a healthy habit, even if you are a doctor/consulting detective duo. Seriously, lay off the espresso after you start to twitch.)**

**Until next time, **

**InkySpectacles**


	21. The Twentieth Hour

_In media res is as good a place to start as any._

**The Twentieth Hour**

**notes at the bottom**

There were alarms going off.

This wasn't entirely surprising; alarms seemed to collect around Sherlock the same way that paperwork collected around Lestrade and state secrets cluttered up Mycroft's office.

The attack dogs, though? Those were new.

"The attack dogs are new, Sherlock," John panted, the barking getting louder as he wobbled at the top of the fence. Sherlock, annoying acrobatic git that he was, had neatly vaulted over the wrought-iron monstrosity like it was nothing and was standing at the bottom, brushing some invisible lint off his coat lapel.

With a much less dignified _thump_, John was standing beside him. And none too soon; within ten seconds three enraged hounds were barking at them from the opposite side of the fence.

They set off like bats out of hell and were six blocks away when the sirens. It was only then John thought to ask. "Did you get it?"

Sherlock grinned and pulled out a small object wrapped in a white handkerchief. With a theatrical air, he pulled it back, and-

"That's the Rose Trellis Egg," John said, with no small degree of amazement. "You're holding the Rose Trellis Egg. Shouldn't that be in a museum?"

"Technically," said Sherlock, savouring the moment like a true Thespian, "It is. Well, a very good fake is. But Interpol knew that Sergei Morofikiav enjoys the finer things in life, acquired legitimately or not." He pauses, studying the egg. "I'm not sure how we can get it to the Yard, though- do you think we can post it?"

John resists the urge to slap him for about four seconds.

"Ow! Or we could use a courier?"

They end up dashing in front of a police car and convincing the officer that they're government agents (not to far off the mark) and that they should take the Egg to New Scotland Yard immediately. As the car peels off, John catches sight of a falalfel cart.

Halfway through their snack, he turns to his partner-in-crime. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock is attempting to eat, text, and watch everyone nearby at the same time. "Mrffl?"

It's a bit adorable. John mentally files this under "things to consider when things are even moderately less insane," and presses on.

"If you every try and convince me to break into a known drug dealer's house to, as you so cheerfully put it, 'liberate a priceless artifact and really stick it to Mycroft," I will put every piece of glassware in the house through the dishwasher."

Sherlock looks nonplussed.

"Even the ones with experiments in them."

Now he looks horrified. "_You wouldn't_."

"If you don't start acting like that massive brain of yours has at least an ounce of common sense, I will." And with that, he turns his attention back to his pita.

Once their wrappers are in the bin and they're skulking away through the back alleys, something occurs to John. "How are we doing for time, anyway?"

Sherlock pulls out his phone. Or maybe not his phone. It's someone's phone. It's a phone, at least, and he'll make sure it's returned when the whole mess is over. "Right now, it's about twelve-thirty." As they begin to climb a fire escape, he grins. "Mycroft is going to be _furious_ when he loses. But he won't be able to do anything. It," and here he finishes scrambling up onto the roof, "Is going to be _glorious_."

John can't help but burst out laughing at their situation. They are standing on a rooftop in them middle of the night, grinning like idiots and playing hide-and-seek with the British Government. He can't even write this up for the blog.

No-one is ever going to believe him!

* * *

><p><strong>First off, I want to say I'm sorry. I haven't been updating like I should; university, clubs, and general life only go so far as excuses, and I apologize to all of you for that.<strong>

**Second, I want to thank you all for your likes, favourites, and reviews- it was a couple of recent reviews that really spurred me into action, and into getting this done. **

**Third, I hope you enjoy this, and the next few chapters coming up; I'm getting this all done at once and putting it up for all of you. As such, there won't be any notes in the next couple of chapters- I'll have a brief piece at the end of the last chapter, and that's it.**

**Thanks to all of you for sticking with me through this,**

**InkySpectacles.**


	22. The Twenty-First Hour

**Help, I've started being sentimental and I can't get up.**

**The Twenty-First Hour**

They were in Soho.

Not even the new, gentrified part, but the old bit that seemed to be left over from the seventies and other eras fond of liberal sexual practices and large amounts of mind-altering substances.

Some of the storefront windows were very creative. He hadn't even known that a mannequin could be _posed _like that.

Their detour hadn't been entirely intentional; a couple of Mycroft's agents, either fiercely loyal or rather terrified of their boss (John suspected the latter) had cornered them near Piccadilly, and the tube had just closed. They'd had to trail behind a ghost walk for nearly half a mile, and then slip through a series of back lanes and under a bridge until they could be certain they'd lost their pursuers.

John was examining the small sign announcing that a small storefront was not, in fact, abandoned, but actually a small rare book store operated by one Mr. Fell, while Sherlock was considering their next plan of action.

"We could steal another-"

"Sherlock," John began, with a voice laced with equal amounts of infinite patience and complete exasperation, "I'd like you to think about that idea for about thirty seconds. And them come up with a better one. Because even if Mycroft decides not to go after us for turning London into our own private version of Grand Theft Auto, we are going to have to come up with a decent explanation for a fair amount of people, and this isn't going to help. And we've neither of us got enough cash to pay for a taxi to just drive us around until the time runs out- the most we could afford is an hour!"

"Sherlock paused to consider this, then turned abruptly and began making his way between the bookstore and another shop that also sold books. Among other, more novelty items. Behind a recycling bin holding at least thirty wine bottles with the labels torn off, as well as a couple of old _Best of Queen_ tapes, the bricks stuck out enough to form handholds.

They boosted themselves up. and found a view of London. Not the _view_, of course, those could only really be found somewhere else, but it was a view. The rooftops were like waves against the sky, which, for once, was almost cloudless. Every so often the silence of the night was broken with some drunken shouting or singing, or a siren's wail, or the barking of nearby dogs. Walking along the walls like it was one of those balance beams from school, they made their way to a sturdier section of roof and carefully sat down to look up.

It was a beautiful night, but you couldn't really see the stars, not with all the light from the city. John remarked as much, and Sherlock looked at him in surprise.

"Why would anyone want to see the stars when there's all of this so look at? That man over there, the one with the Liverpool scarf, he's just recently patched things up with his wife, and he's hoping that he can make it home before she gets angry, and that girl over there had a a fight with her mother last week and she's still angry at her, and that young man in the green hat has only yesterday..."

John tilted his head up at the sky and let Sherlock's voice wash over him as he picked out the big dipper, glowing faintly in the haze. Turning, he could see the figures Sherlock was talking about making their way along the road, hailing cabs, getting in and out of fights, and arguing with significant others. _"The road was a ribbon of moonlight..."_

Sherlock turned to him. "What?"

"John shook his head. "Poem I used to read when I was a kid. Come on, if we can find a shop still open at his hour, I have an idea."


	23. The Twenty-Second Hour

**The Twenty-Second Hour**

It turns out that the view of London was even better from the rooftop of New Scotland Yard than it was in Soho. Sherlock said so much himself as John spread out the paper full of chips he'd bought on the way. He doused the lot with salt and malt vinegar and they began to munch away as they watched the cars and officers move in and out of the station.

"Mind if I join you?"

Lestrade was standing at the staircase door. At their nod, he made his way over and sat down. "Please tell me there's not vinegar on those."

John waved the empty packet as Lestrade scowled. "Heathens." This didn't stop him from taking a handful, even though he made a face. "Could use more salt."

Sherlock flicked a packet at his head.

They ate in companionable silence as the smell of chips spread over the roof.

"Quiet night at the station?" John asked as he balled up the paper and jammed it into his coat pocket.

"Quiet enough, once we got the cameras back up," Lestrade replied. "Right now it's just the matter of keeping an eye on the drunk tank and occasionally sweeping the British Government out from where it's been hiding in corners. I sent Anderson and Donovan and the rest of them home an hour ago- mostly, I've been getting caught up on paperwork." He paused. "Oh- Molly called, said she had some interesting-looking specimens for you to have a look at-" and here Sherlock looked interested- "But, she says, as you did such a marvellous job this afternoon, she's going to let you handle the paperwork from now on."

John couldn't manage to hold back a snicker. They clattered down the stairs, and came face-to-face with a rather surprised looking agent, who immediately went for his gun.

Lestrade punched him in the face, and he dropped like a rock.

"Been wanting to do that _all bloody day_," he grumbled as they made their way down the corridor. "They even drank all the coffee in the break room and didn't even bother to make any more. I mean, even that con artist that faked being a forgery expert made a new bloody pot!"

"It's completely unprofessional," John agreed sagely as they rounded the corner and came face-to-face from another, who went down courtesy of Sherlock's rabbit punch to his forehead.

"I will be sure to speak to my brother about it," he added. "If there's going to be any level of inter-organizational cooperation in this country, there are rules that have to be respected."

All three of them nodded.

John suddenly had a worrisome thought. "They didn't tamper with the tea kettle, did they?"

Lestrade shook his head. "They wouldn't dare. There is unprofessional, John, and there is downright barbaric. They were simply unprofessional."

The elevator _dinged _and opened to reveal a whole squad. In short order, Sherlock and Lestrade discovered that John had liberated a taser at some point during their journey, and was even quite adept at using it.

They also discovered that if you smash someone's head into an elevator's control panel hard enough, it might refuse to work entirely and force them to take the stairs.

Four encounters, three scuffles, and once used fire extinguisher later, they had left Lestrade in his office and were making their way down to the main entrance. After all, why not go out in style?


	24. The Twenty-Third Hour

**The Twenty-Third Hour**

There were a surprisingly small number of agents at the entrance. They wondered about this for a minute, until Lestrade's voice boomed out over the PA system, which they hadn't been able to hear in the stairwell.

"Look, Sherlock, this game was funny up to a point. But it's way too bloody late, I want to go home, and if you don't stop messing about in the evidence archives I will personally hand you over to your brother myself. Got that?!"

He sounded really exasperated.

"The stage," John puffed as they rounded the corner and began to sprint for the entryway (still guarded, but a fair number of them had dashed off) "lost a fine actor when Gregory Lestrade went into policing."

"He does a bit of community theatre," Sherlock huffed as he threw someone over the reception desk. "I went to see him when they did _King Lear_- he was the Earl of Gloucester. The rest of the cast was hopeless, but he was quite good."

"Oh?" Now John was interested.

"I'll tell you more later- we've got about fifty minutes before we win!"

They dealt with the last of the agents and raced outside, hailing a cab. Clambering inside, Sherlock tossed a pile of notes at the driver. "Baker Street. Take a long route, keep your speed up, and don't stop for anything?"

The cabbie seemed a bit wary, but it was a lot of money they'd paid him.

He was a lot more wary, however, when the two black cars swung out of a side street to follow them.

"I'm not going to get arrested for this, am I?"

"Of course not," said Sherlock dismissively. "And even if you did, the charges would never stick."

This didn't seem to reassure their driver very much, but he took a couple of odd-looking turns and managed to lose them.

John was texting Mrs Hudson to let her know they were fine, and Sarah to let her know there was no way he could make it to the clinic tomorrow, and Lestrade to give him updates. Sherlock was gazing out the window and identifying plainclothes officers as they drive past them.

"Are you sure they're MI6?"

"Positive. Look at the stance. It's a very distinctive stance."

Forty-five minutes later they were two blocks away from Baker Street and the cabbie had lost all patience with them.

As he drove away darkly muttering something about "danger pay," Sherlock and John broke into a dead sprint as they raced for 221B. There were two cars pealing up the street when they were heading up the steps, and _thank everything_ Mrs. Hudson had left the door unlocked.

The dashed up the stairs and blew through the door into 221B. The clock over the fireplace read ten minutes past four in the morning, Mycroft was nowhere to be seen, and _they had won_. They grinned like fools as John went over to put the kettle on and Sherlock pulled out his violin and began to rosin up the bow.

All of a sudden, a new voice cut in.

"I believe congratulations are in order for the two of you."

Mycroft, leaning on his umbrella, with not a wrinkle in his suit nor a hair out of place, was standing in the doorway.


	25. The Twenty-Fourth Hour and End

**The Twenty-fourth Hour**

Mycroft looked smug. This was not a surprise- he seemed to live in a perpetual state of smugness- but given that they'd just bested him, it was just a bit worrisome.

Sherlock had no time for it. "We won, Mycroft, fair and square. The bugs go."

Mycroft nodded. "Of course. Although, I suppose I should be thanking you as well."

John groaned. _Of course, it was too good to be true..._

Sherlock had an odd look on his face- one part interest and at least three parts homicidal rage.

"What."

John gave up on the tea and made his way over. If Sherlock was going to punch his brother, he might need to smooth out the situation.

Or slug him again, depending on the situation.

Mycroft's smugness, however impossible, increased. "For all your help, of course. I'd been trying to get you to look at that museum break-in for a while; thanks to you solving that murder, we managed to crack a smuggling ring with some ties to the Maltese Ambassador. My men had an excellent training opportunity as well."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitches.

"And getting ahold of both Dinapoli and the and Alrigo saved me a lot of... _legwork_. You know how much I dislike it."

John if Mrs. Hudson would poison some scones if he asked really nicely.

"And I should express my gratitude for clearing up that mess at the Theatre- I was hoping to attend the production in a few day's time and an unsolved murder might have led to delays."

And with that, Mycroft takes his leave.

Sherlock growls and goes for John's gun. _He must have a picture of Mycroft somewhere_...

John holds it up, along with a set of darts. "How about we order fifty anchovy pizzas to his office as well?"

...

Mycroft slides into the back of the car and nods to Anthea, who is texting away madly. Or playing Tetris. It's a fifty-fifty chance.

"That Perkins seems like a solid officer; I'm thinking of recruiting him."

She smiles. "Are we giving him an offer he can't refuse?"

He taps on the window and the car starts to move forwards. "I prefer to think of it as offering opportunity for advancement. After today, there are going to be a few positions open. And now, shall we have breakfast?"

She smiles. "The Ritz? We might see that nice Mr. Fell."

* * *

><p><strong>And that's all she wrote.<strong>

**Thank you to everyone who favourited, followed, reviewed, and stuck with me, to everyone who gave me a kick in the butt, and to BlindViolinist, who gave me the energy to finish this piece. **

**Thank you, and good night.**


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